The Present Moment
by mary48184
Summary: An unusual encounter leads Mac on a surprising journey. Please R&R! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Summary: An unusual encounter leads Mac on a surprising journey. Disclaimer: I don't claim to own them, I just borrowed them for a little – okay, a long – no a REALLY long – while for my own entertainment. All characters belong to Donald Bellisario, et cetera… A/N: This story begins sometime during the 10th Season, after Christmas and _The Four Percent Solution_ but before _Bridging the Gulf_, and completely ignores the existence of the resident slimeball from JAG's final year, Vukovic (who quite frankly annoyed me in every possible way). 

Barring any unforeseen complications, I intend to post one chapter every Monday. Why wait so long between posts? Truthfully, there are only 16 chapters, and since it took me nearly two years to finish (yes folks, I actually started writing this story in March of 2005!) I don't want to rush and start posting it too quickly. I figure once a week is a nice interval. )

Chapter 1 

Friday

April 1, 2005

0045 ZULU (1945 local)

Lucky Dream Palace

Falls Church, Virginia

Once again Harm and I are here at the Lucky Dream Palace, having so-so Chinese food and chatting about anything and nothing. At least this time he's actually engaged in the conversation – when we were all here last winter to celebrate Petty Officer Coates' promotion, he'd spent half the night transfixed by the bubbles of the restaurant's gigantic fish tank. At the time our friendship had been on shaky ground; we'd been civil to each other, certainly, but there was an underlying tension that I don't think either of us knew how to bridge. Of course, looking back I now realize that our discomfort with each other was due in large part to the circumstances through which we'd arrived at that point. Had I known, truly, how Harm had felt about me… still feels about me… well, it's all water under the bridge as they say.

Things have been easier between us since Christmas, when I wrapped a Navy-issue sedan around an unsuspecting tree. Despite the subsequent shift in our relationship, though, neither of us has initiated the first step at moving beyond old friendship. I guess some things never change.

"How was everything? Would you care for box?" a feminine voice asks in stilted English.

The waitress, a young Asian immigrant wearing a floral print bandanna and a pleasant smile, flashes a shy glance at Harm as she sets the check folder, with two fortune cookies, on the table between us.

"I'm all set," Harm replies with a gesture to his near-empty plate. "Mac?"

"No thanks." I shake my head at the waitress, who gives a brief nod before gathering up the remnants of our dinner and disappearing off behind a curtain into the darkened kitchen. Across from me, Harm relaxes back into his chair, apparently not in any hurry to leave.

"So, got any big plans for the weekend?" he asks casually.

"Nothing special. Starbucks ice cream, flannel pajamas, and the three comedies from Netflix that were waiting in the mailbox when I got home last night. You?"

For the last month we've been working together as co-counsel on a special, and surprisingly complex, review that had been dropped in General Cresswell's lap by the SECNAV's office and subsequently passed along to us. This afternoon, finally, after four weeks of nonstop investigating, deliberating, and sometimes-heated-but-always-professional arguing, we were at last able to put the finishing touches on our four-hundred page report, slap a bow on top, and present it to the general for his review. After taking a perfunctory pass through the first few pages, the general then surprised both of us by mentioning that on-call duty for our sections over the next few days had been assigned to Commander Turner, leaving Harm and me free to relax over the weekend without having to worry about fielding the questions of the less experienced off-hours staff.

This came as a complete surprise, but not an unpleasant one. Since the two of us had been taken off the normal on-call rotation for the duration of the review, we'd started an informal wager around who would get the honors for the first weekend after the project wrapped. Harm, of course, thought I would get stuck with on-call, and I in turn figured it would be him. Needless to say, we both lost the bet, and the unexpected gift of our first work-free days in over a month was accepted eagerly and with a minimal amount of fanfare.

"I'm heading out to Blacksburg first thing in the morning." Harm grins at me. "To see Mattie and Tom. Now that Grace Aviation is back on its feet and apparently doing well, Tom's enrolled Mattie in beginning flight lessons. I promised her I'd take her up for a spin."

"Do they know you're coming?" After all, we only found out about our last-minute mini-vacations about two hours ago.

"Yeah, I called from the office before we left."

"Sounds like fun. Tell them I said hi."

"Will do." He nods, glancing down at the table. The check from our meal is still sitting on the red vinyl tablecloth, folded neatly in a black leather envelope and buried underneath two individually packaged fortune cookies. "I guess they're not doing the whole 'cookies in a basket' thing anymore."

"Nah," I smile, although his sudden mention of our last dinner here brings with it a sense of unease and dread. "Two cookies is more cost-effective. The whole basketful from last time was just meant to impress the two-star in the group."

"Ahhh…"

Reaching for the cookies, Harm takes one and passes me the other. Our fingers brush as he drops it into my palm, leaving me feeling bereft when he pulls his hand back as quickly as it came. We open the packages in silence.

For some reason, I don't want to see what the little slip of paper has to say. That last time we were here, the rest of the group had found it oddly amusing when everyone's fortunes had turned out to say the same thing: _Your unspoken desire is the road not taken. Take it. _All of the fortunes except for mine, or so I'd led everyone else to believe. There was something in those words that I couldn't bear to articulate aloud, especially in front of Harm, so instead I'd made up something stupid and tried to pass it off as the truth. Everyone seemed to accept it at face value as they'd continued discussing the odds of five separate fortune cookies having identical messages, but for the rest of the evening I'd felt Harm's eyes on me when I wasn't looking. It was as though he'd known that I'd chickened out of admitting my 'real' fortune and couldn't quite figure out why.

It's just a cookie, I tell myself now, popping open the hermetically sealed cellophane wrapper and cracking open the two halves of the cookie inside. How bad can a weirdly translated, mass-produced, standard-Chinese-restaurant-fare fortune cookie's fortune be?

"Let's hope they're not the same this time," Harm says with a smile. "'Take the time to deliberate; but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go in,'" he reads aloud, chuckling as he holds the small slip of paper between his forefinger and thumb. "That's not a fortune, that's an Andrew Jackson quote."

"They probably weren't counting on the cookie being opened by someone who's as familiar with American political history as you are. But at least it's straightforward," I point out wryly, thinking of the cryptic fortune we'd all shared at Coates' promotional dinner.

Harm's attention immediately shifts to me. "What about yours?"

Sliding the little white piece of paper from one side of the cookie, I unfold it gingerly:

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

I can't help but give a small snort at the cookie's message. Like anyone else, there are definitely things about my life that I'd love to go back and change… but the key phrase in that thought is 'go back.' God, there is so much I wish I could have the chance to do over, do better, do right. But life will forever be full of what-ifs and could-have-beens, and more than anyone I realize that despite all of my good intentions, nothing I do or say can change the choices I've made. Change the past.

"Mac?" I hear Harm say quietly, his voice earnest as he looks at me over the discarded wrapper of his own cookie. It's not like I'm whispering, but I can barely hear my own voice as I read the fortune aloud to him, just as he expects. After all, reading our fortunes aloud is a tradition of sorts.

He simply looks at me.

"I'm going to run to the ladies' room," I tell him, folding the small slip of paper between my fingers as the waitress approaches with folded hands and a shy smile. There's no reason for either of us to speculate about the cryptic words of my cookie's 'fortune.' We're just two colleagues who could be described as best friends and perhaps potential soulmates, individuals who have exchanged meaningless fortunes at Chinese restaurants on many occasions without cause for speculation. Why should this time be any different? Again, things never seem to change. But if I'd wanted to think about how my life might have been different…

Well, there's no point in dwelling on the 'what ifs.'

Harm nods, wordlessly reaching for the check as I push back from the table and grab my purse. The words from the cookie's fortune ring through my mind, a suddenly unwanted reminder of all of the events from recent years that have kept me from truly achieving my deepest desire:

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment. _

_What does that mean, exactly?_ I wonder as I head into the women's restroom. I don't really have to use the facilities, but I definitely need some separation from the immediacy of Harm's penetrating gaze. Despite the fact that we've known each other for the better part of a decade, he still has no idea how much his eyes truly affect me. There is no other attorney, military or civilian, who can influence my judgment of a client's innocence or guilt based on a single look. And that's not even considering the fact that he's a man – a one-hundred percent, red-blooded American man who can, if he sets his mind to it, turn the entire female population of the eastern seaboard into a steaming puddle of goo with a single glance. It's a good thing Harm doesn't realize how much his eyes turn me on, because I'd be in _big_ trouble if he did!

My face begins to heat up and I quickly direct my thoughts away from that particular path, instantly aware that I'm standing in a public restroom with a dampened paper towel in my hands. Fortunately, none of the stalls behind me appear to be occupied. Pressing the towel coolly against my neck, my eyes drift shut and I work on calming my mind. I stand there for a few minutes, eyes closed, grateful for the quiet peace away from the bustle of the dining room outside.

"What you change?"

The raspy, sharply demanding female voice startles me. Whipping around with a decidedly un-Marine-like yelp, I smack the back of my wrist against the cheap laminate countertop. Standing a few feet away, by the wall, is an elderly Chinese woman of medium height. From her worn clothing, the way her graying hair has been pulled up into a serviceable bun, the mop in her hand and her broken English, I immediately infer that she's a restaurant employee. The question of how she got into the restroom without my hearing wanders restlessly in the back of my mind – I've been standing here at the sink for nearly four whole minutes now and never heard a thing. She must have one hell of a soft touch!

"Excuse me?" I ask, eyes narrowing as I gingerly cradle my now sore wrist. The woman blows out an annoyed breath.

"What you change?" she repeats huffily, placing one hand on her padded hip. "If could go back and change one thing in your life, what you change?" With her accent, the words come out stilted, _ting_ instead of 'thing' and _you_ instead of 'your.'

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

"What would I change about my life?" I reply back numbly. God, what _wouldn't_ I change?

Apparently pleased that I understand the question, the woman flashes me an excited gap-toothed smile. "One," she says. "One thing you change. But beware, what you think you want to change not necessarily the correct thing to change."

I open my mouth to respond, but something in her gaze stops me cold. Behind the veil of her eyes, there is a depth and awareness about this woman that makes me believe she knows more and sees more than I can possibly imagine. The wheels in my head begin to turn, now that the shock I felt a few moments ago with her unexpected appearance has started to wear off. How does this woman know about my fortune? A picture forms in my mind, of the way Harm looked at me when I read the words out loud. It can't be a coincidence that her questions directly tie in to what the cookie said, can it? She must sense my sudden wariness, because her eyes shrewdly lock onto mine.

"A good change this," she says enigmatically, her lips twitching with barely concealed glee. "Good choice you make." Nodding with satisfaction, she gives me one last wink before stepping nimbly towards the door.

"Choice?" I'm confused. "But I didn't make a choice!" I call after her, watching helplessly as the door swings shut. Once again alone in the ladies' room, it takes about half a second for me to follow her out into the short hallway. Stepping out into the darkened corridor, I look both ways but the woman is nowhere to be seen. A quick glance into the kitchen shows it to be empty, save for a young man busy scrubbing down an industrial-sized wok, so I turn back towards the dining room. She's not here either.

"Everything all right?" Harm asks as he rises from his seat. He must sense my confusion because his eyes are filled with mild concern.

"Yeah," I say quietly, taking one last look around for the woman who has seemingly vanished into thin air. Pulling out my wallet, I reach for the check. "Let me just take care of this—"

"Don't sweat it," he interrupts, motioning for me to put my money away. "My treat."

I look up at him in mild surprise, but smile in thanks. Can we really have made it through an entire evening without getting into some sort of inane argument? "I'll pick it up next time."

"Deal."

He returns the smile, and for a moment I'm taken back to a time when there was nothing between us except easy friendship and the occasional professional disagreement. Basking in the fond memories of the 'good old days,' I keep to myself as we walk silently out into the parking lot. Although the sun has set, the sky is still bright and only a handful of stars have begun to twinkle to the east. I pull out my keys as we walk side by side across the pavement.

When we finally reach our cars, Harm extends a soft, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harm," I return warmly before at last turning to my Corvette and giving the driver-side door handle a sharp tug. To my annoyance, I find the door still locked. Giving the button on my keyless-entry remote another deliberate push…

Nothing happens.

Normally I'd be able to hear the door unlocking, but for whatever reason the remote doesn't want to work. _That's odd,_ I think, pushing the button one more time. Getting the same result, I shrug inwardly and unlock the door the old-fashioned way, using the key. Tossing my purse beside me as I slide into the driver's seat, my relief at getting into my car is short lived: the key turns in the ignition, but the car won't start.

I sit there for a moment, puzzled. After turning the key again to no avail, I try turning on the headlights. Nothing.

"Something wrong, Mac?" A few feet away, Harm is peering at me over the soft-top of his own 'Vette, waiting like the gentleman he is until I'm safely on my way.

"Dead battery," I sigh. Fortunately my insurance policy with USAA includes roadside assistance, but it's late and all I want is to get home.

"Want a jump?"

Dropping my head back against the seat, I look over at him. "Did you ever get your cables back from Coates?" I inquire, knowing full well that he gave them to her when she'd found herself in a similar situation a few weeks ago.

Harm grimaces sheepishly. "Not yet. Want me to give you a ride?"

"Would you mind?" All of a sudden my dinner is settling heavily in my stomach, the long hours of the last few weeks seeming to hit me at once, and I find myself struggling to stifle an unexpected yawn.

"Would I have offered if I did?" he counters. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

Page 8 of 8


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_"What you change?" The old woman's face floats in front of my eyes like a beacon, an apparition wavering in the blue sea of my dreams. In the distance, a faint intermittent buzzing noise is drowned out by the sound of her voice, which scratches my ears, grates across my spine as it lowers to whisper: "Your unspoken desire is the road not taken. Take it!" _

Shifting slightly, the watery gray of her eyes melts away to reveal someone I haven't thought about in years: John Farrow. He emerges from the misty darkness carrying an oddly shaped metallic basket brimming with cellophane. As he nears, I see that's he's munching on what appears to be a fortune cookie. To my astonishment, a trail of crumbs is falling down the front of his otherwise impeccable sport jacket.

"How about it, Sarah?" he asks around a mouthful of cookie. "Shall you try the road not taken?"

Suddenly the buzzing noise has grown too close, approaching from the edges of my mind until it's hard upon my heels and boring into my skull. With a groan, I burrow deeper into the softness of the pillow, hoping desperately to escape its persistent beacon. However, it's no use. The damn thing won't go away until I do something.

As soon as my hand hits the snooze button, reality begins to intrude into my sleep-addled brain. The last thing I recall was climbing into Harm's car in the restaurant parking lot last night after dinner. As hard as I try to remember, there's nothing beyond that – one minute I was leaning my head against the cool glass of his passenger window, the next I'm waging a one-woman battle against an annoying piece of electronics from Radio Shack. _How on earth did I get to bed?_ I wonder. _And why the hell did I set the alarm?_ Usually my internal clock has me awake and out of bed by seven o'clock on Saturday mornings, but surprisingly enough I have absolutely no clue what time it is. Interesting.

Lifting my head slightly, I prop open one eye just enough to see the vivid red lights of the clock sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. I've actually owned the thing for years, but this is the first time in recent memory that I haven't woken up before the alarm sounded. The numbers swimming into focus, I realize that it's nearly eight-thirty, well after I'm normally out of bed and on my second (or sometimes third) cup of coffee. For a moment a small groan escapes, and I bury my face in the covers as I think about how much Harm's going to tease me for being late for the Saturday morning work sessions that have lately become such a regular part of our lives. But then yesterday's events come rushing back: Harm and I finally finished our report, and after giving it his once-over blessing, General Cresswell granted us a surprise weekend leave. I'm technically on vacation. But what the hell am I going to do with myself today? Moaning again, this time I toss back the bedspread and catapult myself out of bed, making sure to turn off the alarm as I go. My feet feel like lead as I pad across to the closet for my robe.

Still wondering how I got home last night, my slippers hardly make a sound as I cross through the living room to the kitchen, all the while rubbing sleep from my eyes. A few moments later the coffee maker is humming softly on the counter, and I'm leaning back peering into the fridge. Nothing looks good. The images from my fleeting dream continue to pass through my mind, the old woman's toothy grin and John's handsome face. _What made me dream about John?_ I speculate absently, reaching for the milk. I honestly haven't thought about him in years. Pondering it as I pour myself a humongous bowl of cereal, it finally occurs to me that I really don't care about John Farrow anymore. What happened between us so many years ago was an obvious mistake, end of story.

"If I'm going to 'take the road not taken,' it certainly wouldn't be with you, John," I mutter aloud. Slamming the refrigerator door with finality, I push Farrow out of my mind and return to the living room, bowl of cereal in one hand and a gigantic mug of coffee in the other.

For a moment I stand there contemplatively, eyes skimming around as I debate on how to occupy my morning. It's so rare that I have an entire day to myself that the novelty of it now is a little overwhelming. Finally, my gaze lands on the entertainment armoire. Thinking of the DVD that Harm's former ward, Mattie Grace, gave me for my last birthday, I set my mug down on the coffee table and open up the cabinet. Although she and I don't know each other all that well, she'd obviously known about (and disapproved of) my ill-fated relationship with Clayton Webb, CIA Extraordinaire, because she'd thoughtfully chosen the movie "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" as a gift. The bowl of cereal in my hand starts to grow heavy as I scan through the titles without finding the one I want.

_Oh come on. Where is it? It's got to be here somewhere._

I take an absent bite of my corn flakes before leaning in for a closer look. After ten minutes, I finally come to the maddening conclusion that it's not there. _What could I possibly have done with the damned thing? Could I have loaned it to someone and just don't remember?_ I think, knowing that the disc couldn't possibly have wandered off by itself.

The words are hanging in my mind when I'm suddenly startled out of my skin by a heavy knock on the front door, a few feet away to my right. Who in their right mind would be calling on me at this hour of the morning? Don't they know better than to sneak up on a groggy Marine? Prepared to take a chunk of hide out of whoever is on the other side, I peer warily into the peephole and find myself coming up short. It's Harm.

My first, and admittedly irrational, thought is that he's taken the initiative of having someone head out to Falls Church and tow my car all the way back to Georgetown. But then reality intrudes. Harm and I haven't exactly been on the best of terms in the last two years or so. Sure, we've been working closely together this past month and things have been much smoother between us, but it's not like we're back to the close personal relationship we'd enjoyed a few years back. And besides, it's too early in the morning for my insurance company to be answering their phones since they're based in Texas, an entire time zone behind D.C.

My second thought is that I'm standing here in my bathrobe with total bedhead, holding a bowl of soggy cereal and probably suffering from a severe case of morning mouth. For a minute I debate if I have enough time to run and brush my teeth, but then Harm is knocking again, more insistently this time. Giving an inward shrug, I use my free hand to flip the deadbolt and toss the door open.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" I ask grumpily, turning back into the living room before he can even say hello. His showing up unannounced on my doorstep makes me oddly nervous. It doesn't help that I look like I just woke up. Literally.

"Eight forty-two," he answers, closing the door behind him while I plop down onto the couch, focusing my attention on the contents of my cereal bowl. "What are you still doing in your pajamas? You'd better hurry up or we're going to be late."

"Late for what?" I ask automatically, glancing up. As soon as I do, my chest tightens, making my ribcage feel about ten sizes too small. Harm looks weird… but in a really sexy way. Something has changed since we saw each other yesterday. What is it? Trying not to let him catch me staring, I can't pinpoint exactly what's different. Maybe it's the fact that he's standing just inside my doorway in his bomber jacket and a pair of form-fitting, well-worn jeans that I could have sworn ended up in his greasy garage rag-pile a few years back. Or perhaps it's because he's now shifting from one foot to the other, trying to mask a sense of discomfort that would only be obvious to someone who knows him well. Like me.

"You forgot, didn't you." His tone is slightly accusatory, and I can't help but feel guilty even though I have no clue what he's talking about.

"Forgot what?" I counter, firmly pushing aside the nagging itch that's edging along the back of my mind. Something about the tone of his voice makes me feel like I'm missing half the conversation. But implicit intimacy has always flowed between us, a form of unspoken communication. This is me and Harm, after all. "I thought you were going out to Blacksburg today."

His brows furrow in an immediate expression of bewilderment. "Blacksburg? Why would I go to Blacksburg? We're supposed to be at Bud and Harriet's at nine, remember?"

"Bud and Harriet's?" Okay, I'm seriously lost here. My confusion must be evident, because he immediately steps over and lays the back of his hand on my forehead.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asks, a quirky smile of concern playing along his lips as he pretends to check for a fever before taking a step back. I can't help but notice how good he looks: his face seems leaner to me, but then again I'm apparently having trouble waking up this morning. Maybe he got a haircut. _Since dinner last night?_ questions a little inner voice. I ignore it.

"I'm fine. What's at Bud and Harriet's"

"Mac, if you don't want to go... I've already apologized for what I said on Friday, but if you want me to say it again, I'm sorry." Oh God, he's pulling out the lost puppy look. I'm a goner.

"No, no, it's fine. I just forgot," I tell him quickly. I don't know what exactly it is he's apologizing for, and I certainly don't remember agreeing to go to Bud and Harriet's, but just because I can't seem to follow the conversation this morning doesn't mean I'm not game for a little unexpected socialization. Pushing off from the sofa, I hold out the bowl. "Can you go put this in the kitchen for me? I'll just be a minute."

Not giving him a chance to argue, I thrust my half-eaten breakfast into his hands and scurry through the door into my bedroom. _Obviously I didn't make things clear yesterday. It's just like Harm to barge in and turn my plans inside out, even after I've already told him that all I want to do is spend a quiet day relaxing by myself at home,_ I grumble to myself as I hurriedly change into some black pants and a blouse, slipping on a comfortable pair of heels.

Despite knowing that Harm is sitting out in the living room waiting for me, probably growing more impatient by the minute, I shoot a piercing glance towards the closed bedroom door before stepping into the bathroom. The toothbrush is halfway to my mouth before I take a good look in the mirror.

My hair is pulled up onto the top of my head and is sticking out in all different directions, spiking up in ways that it wouldn't have just yesterday, when it easily reached down to my shoulders. Standing there with my toothbrush hanging halfway out of my mouth, I swiftly lift my hand and yank out the elastic band. Free of its stubby ponytail, my hair falls awkwardly around my ears… the ends only coming down as far as my chin, about four inches shorter than it was a mere twenty-four hours ago. I spit my toothbrush into the sink with a dull clatter.

"WHAT THE HELL?!!!" my eyes widen as I gasp out loud. Staring back out from the mirror, I'm standing agape with a short, neat haircut, instead of the longer shoulder-length style I've worn for the past year. Completely and utterly shocked at my reflection, I blink hard a few times and trail my fingers through the ends of my hair, testing the length and pulling at it, as though the tactile act of touching the strands will miraculously make my hair grow again. Turning from side to side in an attempt to see the back of my head, I cannot believe that this is real. Logic dictates that what I'm seeing is impossible, but I can't ignore what all my senses are telling me – my hair seems to have inexplicably shortened overnight.

"Mac? You okay?" Harm's voice echoes from the other room.

Opening my mouth to reply, it takes a minute before any sound comes out. "I'm fine," I finally squeak, although quite frankly that's far from the truth. I clear my throat. "I'll be out in a minute."

For a moment I stand staring at myself in the mirror, waiting for something to happen. Am I dreaming? I've got to be dreaming. Pushing up my sleeve, I give my arm a hard pinch, but nothing changes. I'm still standing here in my bathroom with the faucet running comfortingly, the face in the mirror a ghost from my own past.

At long last I force myself to start moving again, but my mind has gone completely numb from shock. My body operates on autopilot, re-brushing my teeth, scrubbing clean and applying a few key traces of makeup, running a comb through my unexpectedly short hair as my subconscious mind tries desperately to find some rationale for what's happening. No matter what, though, I can't see any logical explanation, and I finally return to the living room in a fog of frustration.

Harm seems to have made himself at home on my couch. When I emerge from the bedroom, he flashes me a smile and stands.

"Ready?" he asks as I grab my jacket.

"As I'll ever be. " My voice comes across confidently, despite the fact that the entire world seems to have shifted onto one ear in the last ten minutes. "Let's go."

A moment later we're descending the staircase to the front door of my building. Outside, another surprise awaits me: instead of being covered with April's newly budding leaves, the trees lining the street have already changed color. Again, I hide my alarm at the astonishingly sudden change in season behind an air of normalcy. Shivering at the chilly nip in the air, I instinctively pull the edges of my windbreaker more tightly together. Ahead of me, Harm looks both ways before stepping between some parked cars and out into the street towards his SUV, which waits patiently on the other side.

"I thought you—" I begin to say, but then think better of it. Fortunately, Harm's too far away by now to hear my aborted question. Looking at the gold Lexus as cross the street, which I could have sworn he had sold after his classic Corvette was fully restored, I wonder again if I'm dreaming. If it is a dream, it's probably the best one I've ever had because it certainly all feels real. Sucking in a deep breath, I quickly cross the street and hop into the passenger seat.

Turning the key in the ignition, Harm flips on the heat full blast as he pulls smoothly away from the curb. "Let me know if you get too warm," he offers as I fasten my safety belt. "It's colder out today than it was yesterday. Guess November's finally here."

"Sure seems like it," I agree, although I have no idea what the weather was like yesterday, whenever 'yesterday' was!

"You're awfully quiet this morning. Something on your mind, Mac?"

"No. I'm just operating without my usual overdose of caffeine." _Well, that's the truth,_ I think.

"It's too bad Sturgis beat us across the finish line yesterday," Harm continues, either oblivious to my preoccupation or ignoring it in favor of making idle small talk. "We could have had some fun being the highest-ranked officers in Ops."

Something Harm is saying rings a bell. Highest-ranked officer for the day…

"But that was over three years ago." The words fly out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to stop and think.

He glances over at me in concern, a distinct note of disbelief in his voice as he asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

My mind begins to whirl at the speed of light. He's referring to the JAG-A-Thon. He has to be. But how can what he's saying be possible? The JAG-A-Thon charity 10K run was something that Harriet had organized in late 2001 in response to the September 11th terrorist attacks. The prize for first place had been highest-ranked officer privileges at JAG Headquarters for a full day, and both Harm and I had been determined to win. Even with a full six-minute handicap, Harm had caught up with me in the last three hundred meters to tie… for second place. Finishing a mere hair's breadth ahead of us was Sturgis Turner, who had moonlighted during his Annapolis days as the U.S. Naval Academy's middle-distance running champion. That first JAG-A-Thon turned out to be the only JAG-A-Thon. And yet Harm has just in effect told me that that same race only happened yesterday. Has he lost his mind?

Or maybe I should be asking myself if I've lost mine.

The rest of the car ride is spent in silence. Although part of me is now expecting it when Harm turns off towards Rosslyn, Virginia, I'm still disconcerted when he steers the Lexus into a parking spot just down the street from Bud and Harriet's old building. My whole body feels like wood as we make our way up to their apartment, my feet once again forging their own path along the sidewalk and up the stairs without me telling them to.

Before Harm can even lift his hand to knock, Harriet Sims has thrown the door open and is ushering us inside.

"Commander! Colonel!" she greets warmly. Her vivacious demeanor, the same as it has always been, helps to give my mind a little peace as I step into their living room. The handful of people already here seem to give weight to my growing suspicion that I've inexplicably been thrown back into the past: Jason Tiner and Victor Galindez, both of whom in my normal world left JAG well over a year ago, are standing off to one side arguing about who suffered the most grievous injury during the 6.2 mile race; on the couch talking with Sturgis is Carolyn Imes, who was dishonorably discharged from the Navy in 2003 for falsifying her credentials as an attorney; and over in the kitchen is Admiral Chegwidden himself, laughing heartily with Bud Roberts and Alan Mattoni. Seeing the admiral smile reminds me acutely of the difficulties he'd suffered during the year leading up to his retirement, and how differently he'd acted towards the JAG staff as a result. But right now, in this moment, he seems to be genuinely enjoying himself, something I haven't witnessed in a very long time. Not for the first time in the last hour, I find myself questioning whether this entire experience is real.

And then I hear a young voice calling my name. "Aun' Mac! Aun' Mac!"

Rushing at me from down the hallway is A.J. Roberts, Bud and Harriet's eldest son. Before I can consciously react, I'm kneeling down and A.J. is in my arms, but he's not exactly the A.J. I remember. The child enveloped in my embrace can't be much more than two years old, while the A.J. of my memories should be turning six in two months' time. However, all of my senses are screaming that it's the autumn of 2001, not the spring of 2005, and I'm obviously not in Kansas anymore. Little A.J. is just one more piece of the puzzle.

"You squishin' me." Belatedly hearing the tiny protest muffled against my shoulder, I release him from what I'd inadvertently let turn into a crushing grip.

"Sorry." I smile weakly, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his forehead. "I just missed you, that's all."

"I miss'd you too." He smiles freely. Then, hearing his mother calling from the kitchen, he scampers off.

Watching him go, stubby little toddler legs pumping madly as he navigates the sharp corner into the kitchen, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by all the hints I've been given this morning that add up to nearly four missing years. The DVD from Mattie that mysteriously disappeared from its space in my entertainment center, my hair shortening itself overnight with no scissors involved, Harm's baffling references to events that in my mind happened far too long ago to be remembered clearly, seeing faces of colleagues who have since moved on and away from the fold of JAG Headquarters… There's only one explanation for all of these otherwise seemingly unrelated clues:

_The past three and a half years of my life haven't happened yet._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

1820 ZULU (1320 local)  
Georgetown, Washington D.C.

My brain has gone numb by the time Harm drops me off in front of my building four hours later. All morning I've been struggling to maintain the appearance of normalcy for my colleagues and friends, who have no idea that I've suddenly lost a substantial portion of my life. It's more difficult than I would have expected, trying to fit back into my old shoes. After everything that's happened in the last few years, I'd be lying to myself if I thought I was the same woman who'd done all this more than three years ago. And yet part of me is surprised that no one noticed, especially considering how long we've all known each other. Bud, Harriet, the admiral, Carolyn: none of them gave any indication today that they'd thought something was wrong…

None of them except Harm.

All morning he's continued to give me odd looks, as though he too can sense something amiss but hasn't quite identified where exactly the difference lies. Even just a few minutes ago, as we'd turned the corner onto my street, he'd again asked if everything was all right. I could tell he wasn't satisfied with my answer. But then again, what am I supposed to say? 'Gee Harm, I've traveled back in time from 2005 and have no idea how it happened!' just doesn't seem like it would cut it. Actually, it sounds like a really bad science fiction plot that would be more plausible coming from Bud than from me.

My thoughts continue to center around Harm. When he'd first arrived at my apartment this morning, I couldn't pinpoint why he'd looked different to me. It was a strange sensation, because his features are almost more familiar to me than my own – I guess that's a side-effect of spending the better part of your waking hours over the last decade with the same person. It wasn't until the drive back to the city from Rosslyn that I could finally articulate what had been nagging at me all day.

For the last few years, since his falling out with the admiral after the whole Paraguay debacle, Harm has carried around a tired expression, one of resignation. Finding Mattie helped put some of the spark back in his stride, but the damage had already been done: the turmoil in Harm's life had sapped some of his vital energy and taken an obvious physical toll. The strain on our friendship hasn't helped either, and I can't help the enormous sense of guilt that washes through me at the realization that my own personal demons have only served to keep us apart, rather than drawing us together like we both wanted, as I now know.

I snort softly to myself, thinking about how many things we've done to each other over the last few years that have brought us to this point in our relationship. At least I can say I'm not totally to blame for the distance between us. As recently as this morning Harm apologized yet again for just such a painful event, a wise-ass comment he'd off-handedly made nearly three years ago to Sturgis about my exes either being dead or wishing they were. Even last night at the Lucky Dream Palace—

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

"The Lucky Dream Palace!"

The name pops out of my mouth as I'm suddenly transported back to the present, or the past, or whenever the hell I am at the moment. My fleeting rush of annoyance with Harm forgotten, I spin on my heel and fly back out onto the street, quickly glancing around for my 'Vette. If I'm right and I've gone back in time, then it should be parked nearby instead of at the restaurant. Sure enough, I spot it sitting half a block away. 

Making a beeline directly for my car, it barely even registers when the keyless entry works and the engine turns without any problem whatsoever. Moments later I'm peeling away from the curb and heading towards Falls Church, my entire being focused on two specific questions: why have I suddenly regressed three years into my past, and how on earth do I get back to where I came from?

The impact of the front tires hitting the curb jars me out of my reverie as I pull into the restaurant's parking lot. With a start, I realize that I've just fast-forwarded in time by another twenty-two minutes – the entire drive over here is lost in a foggy haze. Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs, my eyes widen as I peer through the windshield at the building in front of me.

Rather than the welcoming, slightly shabby façade that greeted me last night, the structure is in an obvious state of disrepair, with clear plastic sheeting taped casually over the door. Hanging on one side of the entryway is a large, stenciled neon orange sheet of poster board. To my horror, the sign reads:

LUCKY DREAM PALACE  
FINE CHINESE CUISINE  
OPENING SPRING 2002!

For an instant I sit there, frozen, blinking periodically as if doing so might mysteriously transform the building in front of me from its current state of construction into the more familiar, friendly establishment that in my mind's eye should be open for business. My heart sinks. This restaurant was supposed to be my link between the past and future, but now that link has been rudely ripped away.

"Great. Just great," I mutter aloud, my voice echoing hollowly in the empty confines of the car. "What do I do now?"

As if on cue, a split second later the shrill ringing of my mobile phone pierces the air, making me jump. Normally I consider myself to be pretty calm and collected in the face of adversity, but this jumping-back-in-time experience has jumbled my nerves something fierce. Reaching into my purse, I fish around for my nice sleek little Nokia only to find myself pulling out a relatively humongous black Motorola flip phone. I flip it open, losing myself for a moment staring at the green LED display, so utterly prehistoric compared to the colorful interface of my Nokia. It takes a minute before the distinct buzzing of someone talking on the other end drags me back to reality.

"Mac? Are you there?" I hear Harm ask as I lift the ancient technology to my ear. He sounds like he's in a garbage can. "Mac?"

"Hey." My voice is breathless as I answer.

"What happened? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just dropped my phone," I hedge. Again, what would I say to him? The truth is too impossible to believe myself, let alone explain to someone as consistently rational as Harm. "What's going on?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're all right."

Rolling my eyes, I can't help but smile. "Harm, you just saw me half an hour ago."

"I know. But it's pretty obvious that something's on your mind and has been all day. If you need an ear, my door's always open."

"I appreciate the offer," I say slowly, fighting off a vague tickling of déjà vu. Haven't we done this before? "But I'm not sure I can articulate it right now."

There's a pause as Harm mulls my words.

"When you're ready to talk, let me know," he finally tells me, his voice low on the other end of the line. The elusiveness of déjà vu solidifies into the memory of him walking away from me along the Atlantic seashore last fall… except that the events of my memory technically haven't happened yet. Paraguay, Sadiq Fahd, Clay's deceptions, the endo – events I remember but that are yet years away from occurring.

_Suck it up, MacKenzie. It's November 2001, not April 2005,_ I remind myself once again, feeling a headache coming on. I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose and close my eyes with a sigh.

"Hey, you still with me?"

Snapping to, I realize that Harm's waiting for me to answer. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Have you given any thought yet to what you're going to get A.J. for Christmas this year?" he asks. He goes from _'let me know when you're ready to talk'_ to Christmas presents for our godson? For some reason, the deliberate subject change makes me want to burst out laughing. Harm may have a tendency to put his foot in his mouth half the time, but he also knows when I'm feeling low. And he has an uncanny way of knowing how to cheer me up.

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Then you'd better get a move on, Marine."

Hearing the amusement in his tone, I do a quick mental calculation. "Harm, Christmas is six weeks away. I think I have some time." I smile in spite of myself.

"Six weeks can go by pretty quickly," he teases. "The holidays will be here before you know it. Better to get in the habit of buying gifts ahead of time now, because someday you're going to have kids of your own and you don't want to have them disappointed on Christmas morning because you lost the battle with some gung-ho mother over the latest rage in toys."

_…someday you'll have kids of your own…_

Another conversation from long ago surfaces, echoing through my mind:

_"What do you regret?" Doctor McCool asked.  
"Waiting too long."  
"To have children?"  
I nodded. "With the right man."_

Instantly I'm pulled out of my jovial mood, realization smacking me like a freight train. What if I could avoid that regret?

_...if you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment…_

"What you change?"

Sitting there in my car, impossibly in my own past, a wave of shock courses through my body as the implications of what's happening hit me all at once. My sharp intake of breath sounds extraordinarily loud in the closed passenger compartment as I stare at the Lucky Dream Palace sign before me.

During that fateful visit to the naval hospital in Bethesda, the doctor had fleetingly mentioned that endometriosis was a condition that developed over time. As my case was so advanced, she'd estimated that despite being asymptomatic, the lesions throughout my lower abdomen had most likely been present for a quite a while. Perhaps even years.

That had been May 2004. I vividly remember the profound grief I'd felt as I'd shared the awful news with Harm on the back porch of the USNA's Officers' Club, and thinking that if I'd only known sooner, things might have turned out so differently…

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

If I'm right, and everything around me is shrieking that I am, the 'present moment' is November 2001. It will be another two and a half years or so before the doctor will give her devastating diagnosis. Two and a half years during which my endometriosis will get progressively worse… unless I decide to do things differently and change my life.

"Oh God," I say aloud, my eyes widening back at me in the rear-view mirror.

"Mac?" Harm's concern is clearly evident over the phone, which I belatedly realize I'm still holding up to my ear. "Mac, what's going on?"

"Nothing… I'm fine, Harm," I say. My voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? Something's just come up."

"Yeah, um, sure," he hesitates, obviously wondering what the hell is happening.

"Okay. Bye."

"Mac, if you need anything—"

I end the call halfway through his offer, but don't really care. My mind is too preoccupied with thoughts and plans and 'what ifs' to register that I just cut him off mid-sentence. What if it's not too late for me to still carry a child? Do I now have a better-than-four-percent chance of conceiving? How does an extra two and a half years translate into percentages? And if I _can_ still have a baby, would Harm be willing at this point in his life to move up the timetable on our five year plan? 

Is this what I was meant to change? Is this why I've been sent back in time? For every possibility running through my head, there are more questions than answers. There are so many ideas forming that I can't stop the doubts.

And yet, for the first time in years I'm also filled with a renewed sense of hope, a burgeoning swell of optimism and anticipation for the future that has been sorely lacking in my life. Sitting there in my car looking out over the lifeless building of what will soon come to be known as the Lucky Dream Palace Chinese restaurant, I vow that there's no time like the present to ascertain what my chances really are. Maybe there will be more disappointment, or maybe I'll discover that this reversal of time has brought with it a gift that I'd thought closed off to me forever.

I'll never know if I don't take that initial step. Thinking back, I remember that the JAG-a-thon had been held on a Saturday, which would make today Sunday. Overwhelmed with newfound resolve to call Bethesda first thing in the morning, I turn the key in the ignition and listen to my Corvette purring to life. Shifting into gear, excitement washes through me as I gently steer the car out of the empty lot and turn in the direction that will take me home. Who knows where this will lead? I suddenly can't wait to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Wednesday  
November 14, 2001  
1523 ZULU (1023 local)  
JAG Headquarters  
Falls Church, Virginia

The parking lot is nearly full when I finally arrive at JAG Headquarters. Waved through by the ever-present guard in the hut outside the building, I ease my 'Vette into one of the few empty spaces at the far end of the lot and kill the engine. Sitting quietly in the driver's seat, I look out over the small park next to the building and mull over everything the doctor told me. The appointment went well, I guess… but there are still a number of lingering worries that keep floating through my mind, circling around and around as I contemplate my next steps.

I've been scheduled to undergo an exploratory laparoscopy next Tuesday, two days before the Thanksgiving holiday. As with this morning's appointment, I caught a lucky break when another patient cancelled at the last minute, making room for my gynecologist to fit me into her schedule. The doubts and fears I felt three days ago outside the Lucky Dream Palace reassert themselves with a vengeance. Part of me is relieved that the doctor understood my sense of urgency and concerns about potential infertility down the road – I told her I'd recently discovered that reproductive complications run in my family, which wasn't exactly untrue. But an even bigger part is scared about what – and how – to tell Harm. _If_ I should tell Harm. At this point in our lives, two and half years into my past, how would he have reacted to the news? How might he have responded? Would he have stayed by my side, like he'd offered in May 2004, or would he have turned tail and run away from the implied commitment, as he'd been prone to do so many times in our checkered history?

_There's only one way to find out,_ I remind myself, determined to see this through despite my hesitation. Grabbing my purse and briefcase from the passenger seat, I hop out of the car and walk briskly across the lot, up the steps, and through the building's front door. There are a few things I need to do before I approach Harm.

As soon as I set foot inside the glass doors of the JAG Ops bullpen, I spot the person I'm looking for over by the copy machine.

"Tiner," I greet without preamble. "I need to speak with the admiral. Can you fit me in sometime this morning?"

Petty Officer Tiner looks up at me, a flash of confusion crossing his face before what I'm asking sinks in.

"Certainly, ma'am." He smiles boyishly, his youthful exuberance showing through. I'd forgotten how engaging his innocent naiveté could be at times. "I'll see what I can do," he tells me.

"Thanks."

Giving him a smile, I turn and walk straight into a solid wall of living flesh… really warm, 6'4" male flesh. God, he smells good.

"Morning, Mac," Harm grins down at me. His hands are gentle on my shoulders, unconscious of the fact that he's just sent shivers down my spine. "You're in later than usual, Marine. What did you do, oversleep?"

My senses reeling from the unexpectedly close contact, I ignore the subtle teasing and slide around him with a look that I hope keeps him guessing. "I had an off-site appointment this morning."

"Anything interesting?" he asks, following me as I head towards my office.

I try to concentrate on getting the key into the lock instead of focusing on him. Even though I know I need to tell him what's going on, a sudden wall of procrastination rears up in front of my good intentions, tendrils of cold dread worming their way into my chest. Why do personal conversations between us always have to be so damned daunting?

"Depends on your definition of interesting," I reply as the doorknob finally turns. Crap, my hands are shaking.

Stepping into the office I can feel his presence more acutely than ever, taking up space in the relatively small room. He remains by the door while I drop my briefcase next to the desk and hang up my coat. Hopefully he can't tell how nervous I am about this.

"Friends talk to friends, Mac."

I glance up involuntarily at his soft tone. Harm's eyes have a tendency to go light blue-green whenever he's intent on something, a clear, watery color that always makes me go weak in the knees and that only emphasizes the directness of his gaze… absurdly, I realize that they're that exact shade right now. It's almost like he can see straight through my outer defenses to the heart of what's wrong, making me feel vulnerable and exposed. Then again, if he could see to the heart of what was wrong then I wouldn't have to tell him what's happening in my world… _Get a grip, MacKenzie,_ I think. _It's now or never._

"Close the door," I tell him with a sigh.

While he makes sure the door is securely latched, I sit down in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Tremors of anxiety are fluttering through my chest, and I realize that I have no idea where to begin. A moment later he's sitting next to me, our knees inches apart but not quite touching. The room stays silent for a few exceedingly long seconds as I try to formulate my words.

"Do you remember when Harriet had little A.J.?" I finally ask, glancing up at him.

He nods and gives a hoarse laugh. "Do you honestly think I could forget? I'm the one who found her in labor in the stairwell. Nearly had a heart attack when she threatened to drop the baby then and there."

"It was fortunate for you that she didn't." I smile.

"Trust me, I was grateful that the admiral came along when he did," Harm says, a look of fond recollection flashing across his face.

I'm sure his memories mirror my own, memories of moving Harriet from the bullpen into the privacy of Admiral Chegwidden's office, tracking down Bud, facing the possibility of having do deliver our godson ourselves. Those were the good old days, before life got so complicated. Impossibly complicated.

"He certainly came to everyone's rescue. A lot could have happened that day."

"Yes, it could have." Nodding in agreement, Harm's expression grows thoughtful. "But that's not what you were referring to."

Looking down at my hands, I realize that I'm fidgeting and fold them quickly in my lap, willing them to stay still. The time has come.

"No, it's not." My words aren't much more than a whisper, and I can't seem to meet his gaze. We both know that we're speaking of our deal, the informal pact we'd made that same day as we'd watched the ambulance ride off into the sunset. I force myself to look back up at him. "At the time you said you'd never made a promise that you couldn't keep. But we never talked about what might happen if _I_ couldn't keep it."

He studies me for a moment, so intensely that I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as the light begins to dawn. "The appointment you had this morning?" he finally asks quietly.

I admire his patience, even more so knowing that he's probably dying of curiosity but realizes that I'm struggling to articulate myself. Somehow I don't remember this discussion being nearly as overwhelming the first time around on the back porch of the O Club. Then again, this time I'm the one broaching the subject.

"Yeah. There's the possibility that I…" The air in my office has suddenly gone dry. "That I'm running out of time to have a baby. Might be out of time already."

Based on the instantaneous look of shock that crosses Harm's eyes at my words, that was obviously not quite what he'd been expecting me to say.

"What do you mean, you 'might' be out of time?" he finally asks, briefly clearing his throat.

"There's a good chance I'm suffering from something called endometriosis."

As briefly and succinctly as I can, I explain a bit about the condition and the impact it has on a woman's fertility. His concern is evident.

"So when will you know for sure?"

"My doctor won't be able to give me an exact picture until she can see the extent of the lesions. It depends on what's already been compromised, if anything. I'm scheduled to go back on Tuesday."

"What for?"

"The only accurate way to diagnose endometriosis is by laparoscopy," I tell him.

"Surgery?" If I'd thought he'd looked worried before, that was nothing compared to his expression now.

I try to play it down. "Exploratory. And it's an outpatient procedure. My appointment is for oh-eight-thirty; I should be home by sixteen hundred."

"Even I know that laparoscopic surgery usually involves general anesthesia. There's no way you'll be able to drive afterwards. How are you going to get home?"

"I'll take a taxi."

"And then what? Mac, you'll need someone with you after you're released from the hospital. Being a Marine doesn't mean you have to do everything yourself."

"Harm, I'm a big girl. This isn't that big a deal," I insist with feigned bravado.

"Mac, for once in your life would it hurt to let someone else take care of you?"

That stops me in my tracks. The plaintive note in Harm's voice only emphasizes the fact that his gaze has suddenly gone gentle again. I'm not sure I trust the way I feel when he looks at me like this. The last time he had this expression in his eyes, we'd been standing alone on Admiral Chegwidden's front porch, talking about 'us' in a manner that had been completely inappropriate for the occasion. My feelings scare me, fill me with trepidation, and yet I can't help but meet him full on.

"Is that an offer?" I ask.

"Do you need one?" he counters.

We've been dancing around each other with ambiguous statements for too many years. If one of us has to make the first move and raise the topic directly, it might as well be me. After all, what have I got to lose? I've already seen what my life would be like maintaining the status quo, and it wasn't a pretty sight. Taking a deep breath, I vow to break the cycle we've been running for as long as we've known one another.

"Yes."

He doesn't back down or hesitate or even bat an eye. "Mac, I'll take you to the hospital on Tuesday. You don't have to go through this alone. I won't _let_ you go through this alone. We'll get through it together. I promise."

To my horror, my eyes begin to fill. His voice is so tender, so resonant and reassuring with quiet confidence that I'm nearly overwhelmed with emotion. For a moment I sit there, hands in my lap, unable to speak.

Just as the silence begins to turn awkward, the shrill ring of my office phone pierces the air. Blinking back the tears, I seize the opportunity to bring some sense of normalcy to my otherwise tilting world and reach around to pick up the receiver.

"Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie."

"Colonel, the admiral can see you now," Tiner tells me from the other end of the line.

"Thank you, Petty Officer." The handset clatters as I end the call and drop it back into the cradle.

"Going to ask the admiral for leave?" Harm asks.

Even this brief interruption has helped me gain a measure of much-needed composure. I nod and rise to my feet, smoothing down the front of my uniform. "I have to request Tuesday and Wednesday off. At least my caseload is light right now."

"Mind if I tag along? I've got a few days coming myself."

"Sure."

With a shrug of acceptance I open the door to my office and step into the activity of the bullpen. Things out here seem so… normal, mundane, the day-to-day activities a welcome break from the sheer weirdness that seems to be characterizing my life at the moment. Walking briskly through the maze of desks towards the opposite corner of the room, Harm close on my heels, I smile good morning to Harriet and the Gunny before entering the anteroom to Admiral Chegwidden's private domain.

"He's expecting you, ma'am," Tiner tells me as we pass by. Out of the corner of my eye I see him give a questioning glance in Harm's direction, but he wisely keeps any comments to himself.

Giving the requisite knock on the doorframe, I wait for the admiral's brusque response before heading into his office.

"Enter!"

Harm and I glance at each other as we head into office and take our normal stations at attention in front of our CO's desk. This is the first time I've been back into the admiral's office since my whole time-travel adventure began; the past few days I've spent occupied in my office bringing myself back up to speed on my current cases. Now seeing the admiral sitting calmly before me, I wonder which man I will be addressing – the even-tempered, fair and rational Admiral Chegwidden I'd worked under for seven years, or the Admiral Chegwidden who'd emotionally abandoned both his people and his duties as his tenure as Judge Advocate General wound to a close.

"At ease," he orders. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"

Hoping that I'm dealing with the admiral of my memories and not the pod-person version from the last year or so, I mentally cross my fingers jump straight to the point. "Sir, with your permission the commander and I would each like to take two days of leave next week."

He frowns up at me. "Colonel, we're already going to be short-staffed around here due to the holiday. Can't this wait until after Thanksgiving?"

"No, sir, it can't." I take a deep breath and elaborate, "I have a medical procedure scheduled for early Tuesday morning. It's outpatient, but I won't be back at a hundred percent for a few days."

"Are you all right?" the admiral asks, his annoyed expression instantly softening into that of concern.

My eyes widen but I manage to keep my jaw from dropping open. Can this really be the old Admiral Chegwidden? A sense of relief washes through me as I realize how much I've missed the man before me, the man who once-upon-a-time had given a reasonable amount of consideration to the personal trials and tribulations of his staff members. Almost immediately, my relief turns to elation at his seemingly genuine interest in my health. The new-but-definitely-not-improved Admiral Chegwidden probably would have merely grunted and told me to make it up on my own time, right before chasing me out of the room.

"As far as I know," I say truthfully, fighting to keep a smile in check, "although I won't know for certain until Tuesday."

The moment stretches interminably as the admiral ponders my request. "Permission granted. Tell Tiner to update the schedule on your way out. Dismissed."

Never ones to look into the mouth of the proverbial gift horse, Harm and I both nod and move to make our exits before the admiral can change his mind.

"Oh, and Colonel?" I'm nearly to the door when the admiral's voice gives me pause.

I turn around while Harm continues ahead of me through the doorway. "Sir?"

My CO's face is now characteristically unreadable, the concern he'd displayed only a moment ago firmly hidden from view. "Keep me apprised."

"I will, sir. Thank you, sir," I tell him, a little taken aback at the request. Despite my excitement at having the 'real' admiral back again, the last few years under his command have conditioned me to expect moodiness, unpredictability… more of a tyrannical dictator than a leader. _Falling back into the old patterns is going to take some getting used to,_ I think to myself. With one last nod, I begin the short walk back to my own office, pondering the events that have just transpired.

As I head out into the anteroom and beyond into the bullpen, it crosses my mind that the admiral didn't even question Harm's request; he just granted us both Tuesday and Wednesday off, as if it were a given that Harm would want to be at my side. After all, Admiral Chegwidden had borne witness to everything between Harm and I up to this point – our close friendship, my ill-fated relationship with Mic Brumby and my desperate need to escape Washington in the ensuing aftermath, how Harm had nearly lost his life trying to get back for my wedding—

_Nope, not even gonna go there._

So I guess I'm not all that surprised that the admiral, especially at this point in time, would automatically assume that he'd find Harm at my side, taking care of me. After all, wasn't that one of the things I used to love about this office? That the people here – Harm, Bud and Harriet, the admiral, and even Sturgis – were the closest thing to family that I had?

I automatically glance into Harm's office as I approach my own office door. Through the window I see him sitting at his desk, partially turned towards the window and talking on the phone. From the serious expression on his face, the conversation isn't going as he'd like. Maybe I'll press him for details over lunch, see if there's anything I can do to help. Then again, I've got my own cases to worry about, not to mention the whole screwy alternate-universe time-traveling life-altering mess to deal with. Shaking my head with a soft chuckle, I continue forward on into my office with a renewed determination to put the whole thing aside for the moment and instead get down to business.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Tuesday  
November 20, 2001  
1723 ZULU (1223 local)  
National Naval Medical Center  
Bethesda, Maryland

The first thing that hits me is the smell of antiseptic, a pungent acrid odor that is so common to medical facilities. Slowly my other senses begin to awaken. The shroud of darkness still surrounding my mind, sounds gradually begin to waft through the dampening fog, echoing to my ears from far off in the distance. A sensation of comforting warmth envelops my left hand, the pressure providing reassurance in this otherwise lonely state of being. But coming full circle, what finally wakes me up is that ever-present awful smell of antibacterial cleaning solution, the taste of which infiltrates my mouth and coats my tongue. It's a vivid reminder of why I usually tend to avoid hospitals.

Attempting to open my eyes, I automatically wince as the brightness of the fluorescent bulbs overhead send shards of pain through my head. That would be the fifth sense: sight.

With a groan I start to lift my unencumbered right hand up to my temples, but even the slightest movement causes a sharp pinching sensation on the back of my hand. My eyes flying open despite the blinding light, I look down and see the telltale tape and tubing of an IV needle.

"Whoa, easy there," a familiar voice cautions me from off to the other side.

It's Harm. For a moment I'm a little shocky, uncertain of where I am, but within heartbeats my memory follows on the heels of awareness. _Bethesda. Laparoscopy. General anesthetic. Harm._

When I open my mouth to say 'hi,' however, it comes out more of a croak than a recognizable greeting. The roof of my mouth feels like a cross between crazy glue and the inside of an old shoe.

"Hold on. Let me get you some water," Harm says, the warm mantle encompassing my fingers suddenly giving way to a cold, harsh breeze. Even as he's reaching for the pitcher at my bedside, it takes another second for me to realize that he'd been holding my hand while I'd been emerging from the anesthesia, and that at least 37 minutes have passed since I started regaining consciousness. The thought of him waiting at my side after surgery causes a flood of affection within my chest that nearly engulfs me, and I find myself fighting off sudden tears. God, I hate feeling this vulnerable.

_Especially when I'm wearing nothing but my birthday suit and an open-backed hospital gown._

Ignoring that thought and the flush of heat in my cheeks that accompanies it, I take advantage of Harm's distraction to pull the blue cotton blanket a little higher around me.

"Here," he tells me as he turns back with a small white plastic cup and sets it on the nightstand. "Do you need a straw?"

I shake my head. I'm a Marine, and Marines don't use plastic bendy straws if they can help it. Plastic bendy straws, along with cherry gelatin, are yet more reminders of why I hate being in the hospital. It's a leftover phobia from having my tonsils out when I was five. Thankfully, he puts the offensive thin red-and-white-striped drinking straw back down on the bedside table.

My abdomen screams in protest as I struggle to sit up, but with Harm's help I'm able to prop myself upright on the arm that isn't currently speared with the nurses' instrument of torture. I gratefully accept the small plastic tumbler and lift it to my lips. The first sip tastes heavenly.

"Thanks," I finally murmur, and take a healthy swallow. Right now I'm so thirsty I could practically drink Lake Erie.

"How do you feel?"

Meeting his gaze over the rim of my cup, I give a half-hearted shrug. "Like I've been pumped full of air and had my insides jumbled around. What did the doctor say?" My voice sounds like I've been eating gravel and quite truthfully I feel like shit, but I'm not in the mood for small talk. I want to know what she found.

"Only that everything went as planned. She didn't elaborate."

As if on cue, there's a hurried rap on the door behind him, followed by the turning of the knob a half-second later. The heavy wooden door swings open noiselessly to reveal a petite brunette, who marches into the room with the brisk efficiency of a career military officer. 

Lieutenant Margaret Nawiasky, M.D. – pronounced "na-VEE-ah-skee" – had been my regular gynecologist until mid-2003, when her civilian husband had taken a position in southern California and she'd requested a transfer to be closer to him. After she'd left Bethesda, I'd stopped using Bethesda's OB/GYN practice and instead had my routine physicals done through my GP's office, which is where I had gone in 2004 when I'd had my first… or was it my last? Oh hell… laparoscopy. But my relationship with Dr Chen had never been the same as the friendly rapport that I'd once had with Dr Marge.

Making one last notation on her clipboard as she stops near the foot of the bed, Dr Marge looks up at me and smiles warmly.

"I see you've returned to the land of the living." She grins, folding the clipboard down in front of her. "How are you feeling? Any nausea or discomfort?"

That's an understatement. I pass the cup back to Harm and gingerly lower myself onto my back. "Crampy, a little sore. And definitely bloated," I tell her with a grimace as my head hits the pillow. Saying that I'm a 'little' sore is more putting on a brave face than being truthful, because in actuality my stomach hurts like hell.

Wait, did I just admit to feeling _crampy and bloated_ in front of _Harm_? Great. Just great. Now I'm conscious of everything below the waist AND of the fact that I'm not wearing any underwear. I blush again.

"I'd be surprised if you weren't," she continues, thankfully oblivious to my sudden embarrassment. "It should wear off in a day or two, but in the meantime you'll probably be most comfortable wearing loose fitting clothes. Are you experiencing any nausea or dizziness?"

Hmn… "No nausea, but the dizziness thing rings a bell," I admit. 

"The nurse can bring you something soft to eat," she says, making a quick notation on her clipboard. "I'll make sure to let her know."

_Oh wonderful,_ I think. _Quintessential hospital cuisine: mystery meat, mushy green beans and tasteless mashed potatoes._

Then my mind turns to more important matters, a flutter of renewed anxiety lodging in my chest. 

"What did you find? Was there much damage?" I ask momentarily.

As though he can sense my inner turmoil, Harm silently reaches out and once again takes my hand in his. It's comforting, the tactile contact from another person, from _him_, especially as Dr Chen's words from so long ago echo in my head:

_I wish I had better news._

The memory of the other doctor's grim prognosis nearly drowns out Dr Marge's voice, but some of what she's saying filters through.

"I beg your pardon?" Pulling myself back into the moment, I frown up at her. My ears feel clogged. "Could you repeat that, please?"

"There were a few lesions, primarily around the fallopian tubes and uterus. I was able to remove most everything without complication. It was a good thing you came in when you did. Had it gone undetected, the endometrial tissue could have seriously compromised your ability to one day have children."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Wrestling with incredulity, my heart suddenly pounding hard against my ribcage, my fingers unconsciously clenching around Harm's supportive hand, I struggle to keep myself steady.

"You mean I…" My voice breaks, but I keep going. "I… you mean I might be able to get pregnant?"

Dr Marge must be able to see how much I'm troubled, because she looks down at me with a sympathetic eye. "Your chances have been lessened somewhat, certainly, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to conceive or sustain a pregnancy to term."

My mind grabs on to the worst-case scenario. I can't help it; I don't want to be disappointed again. I _can't_ be disappointed again.

"Lessened by how much?" I demand, fearing the truth but at the same time needing to know for sure. "How much?"

"I can't say exactly—"

With my last shred of control, I grip Harm's fingers as I interrupt, "What chance do I have, realistically? Five percent? Ten percent? I'm not looking for specifics. Just a ballpark estimate."

_Please, God. Please don't let it be less than five percent._

I'm an attorney. I know that even the best doctors have to worry about passing along erroneous information that their patients might delusionally take as gospel, otherwise their malpractice insurance premiums would go through the roof. Dr Marge tilts her head in acknowledgement, choosing her words carefully.

"Probably closer to eighty-five," she finally tells me. "Given the mildness of your case and the fact that none of the organs appeared to be compromised, I'd say you have roughly an eighty to eighty-five percent chance."

_Eighty to eighty-five percent. Eighty to eighty-five percent._

Suddenly light-headed, kind of dizzy, I dimly realize that it's a good thing I'm already lying down. _Eighty to eighty-five percent._ The words loop through my mind, repeating themselves over and over as my consciousness tries to digest the implications of the doctor's words. My next question is barely a whisper…

"You mean… I'm not infertile?"

The shock on my face – my total disbelief – must be clear, because she shakes her head and smiles broadly. "Not even close."

The world blurs. I can't breathe. A gigantic tidal wave of instantaneous relief breaks over me, washing through my body as the impact of those three words hits home. Unable to stop the tears, my mind goes numb and I close my eyes and begin to cry from the sensation of sheer liberation. With four little syllables she has lifted a tremendous weight from my shoulders.

Long minutes pass as my emotions pour forth. At length I find myself calming down, sobs turning to sniffles and the floodgates of tears growing sticky on my cheeks as they dry. The room around me is quiet…

But my hand is warm.

Even with my eyes closed I know that Harm is still sitting at my bedside, stroking his fingers soothingly across the skin of my palm to both calm me and let me know that he's here. Will continue to be here, for as long as it takes.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what I look like right about now," I murmur sleepily. My nose is swollen from crying, forcing me to breathe though my mouth. This definitely cannot be one of my more attractive moments.

His tone is light and teasing as he gives a soft chuckle and moves to cup my hand in between his palms. "Probably better not to ask."

"Okay." 

"A nurse should be coming by shortly with some food," he tells me. "The doctor wants to do a final exam after you're done eating and have used the bathroom, but she did say that you should be able to go home afterwards. Did you bring anything comfortable to wear?"

I nod slowly, thinking of the men's sweat suit sitting folded in my bag. The elastic-waisted pants are among the most comfortable clothes I own. Come to think of it, they used to be Harm's… and got appropriated somewhere along the way.

All this crying on top of the effects of the anesthetic has worn me out. Lying here quietly, I can't help but dwell on the events that have just transpired. The enormity of the gift I have been given is mind-boggling. And Harm hasn't left my side, even though my face is puffy from bawling. I can't see myself, of course, but whenever I start to cry my eyes and lips swell up, and my nose turns bright red. It's not a pretty sight.

"Thanks for staying with me." Opening my eyes a crack, I glance over at him through a haze of wet eyelashes and give a wan smile.

"Hey." He smiles back and gives my hand a squeeze. "What are friends for?"

The unexpected words cut through my burgeoning hope like a knife.

"Friends, huh?" A trace of dull sarcasm creeps into my voice as I close my eyes once again, a fresh welling of tears burning behind my eyelids. The dance is beginning all over again. _Just friends. I should have known he wasn't ready to move forward. To Harm I'll always be 'good old Mac,' constant and never-changing, faithful friend to the end but never anything more. What was it I'd once said to him? Your interest always fades whenever I might be in a position to return it—_

"Not 'just' friends, Mac." His voice interrupts my self-indulgent mental outburst. A second later I feel the pads of his fingers gently turning my head to face him, his words quiet in the stark hollow of the hospital room. "Look at me."

Forcing my eyes back open, I meet his gaze with a questioning look. He has actually tilted his head so that we're parallel to one another, me reclining back against the pillow and him leaning forward, expression intense. The blue-green hazel of his irises is as light as I've ever seen it throughout all the years we've known each other. My heart begins to beat faster; it's like looking into the depths of the sea…

"Mac," he begins, softly running his thumb along the fleshy ball of my palm. "You are one of the most special people in my life. You are a brilliant lawyer and a damned fine officer, but more than that… you are an incredible woman. Time and again you have been there for me. I know we haven't always been on the same page, but I keep hoping that maybe one of these days we'll get it right. I don't want to push things. You're too important for me to lose."

Before I can react, however, there is yet another brisk knock on the door to my room and the door swings open. Caught off guard, Harm straightens suddenly, turning his head towards the door.

Swallowing hard, I give his fingers a lengthy squeeze as a nurse wheels a tray into the room and steers it around my bed. For the first time I realize that I've been assigned to a semi-private room. There's another bed not three feet away, but fortunately it's currently unoccupied. Thank heaven for small favors.

"Hope you're hungry!" the plump, older nurse announces cheerily. With practiced efficiency she maneuvers the tray so that it sits over my lap. Then, pushing the hand-button to adjust my bed so that I'm sitting upright, she whips off the stainless steel cover from the plate in front of me. "Bon appetit!"

Despite the steam rising up from the plate, I can't smell a thing. That's one of the reasons why I hate crying – what's the point in being hungry all the time if you can't taste your food? Looking down warily, I'm not surprised to see three drab sections: one brown, one green, and one white with a great big brown spot in the middle.

"What is it?" Harm asks, peering over at the tray. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his nose wrinkling.

"Salisbury steak, string beans and mashed potatoes. Yum!" The woman winks with an exaggerated smile. Her warm friendliness and timeworn, fleshy cheeks remind me a little of a grandmotherly old-fashioned nurse, except that instead of a white uniform and starched hat she's wearing a bright pair of scrubs covered in what appear to be Care Bears. It's hard to tell if her enthusiasm is real or an act to keep herself and her patients from going bonkers. "Now be a good girl and eat up! I want to see that plate clean when I come back."

As she pulls back, I catch a glimpse of her nametag: she's a pediatrics nursing aide. Guess that explains the cartoon-laden scrubs and the sunshiney attitude. And the fact that she's hovering over me like I'm three.

"I think we've got it from here," Harm reassures her, flashing an equally bright-although-not-quite-genuine grin. "We'll ring the call button when she's finished."

I'd swear she looks disappointed. "Oh, all right then. But let me know if you need anything else," she tells us and bustles out of the room.

When the door closes behind her, Harm and I glance at each other and burst out in laughter. It hurts, but feels good at the same time.

"What was that about?" Unlike the smile he'd given the nurse, this one's real, and it's all for me.

I chuckle and briefly explain about the nametag. "She's probably helping out over at this end of the ward. I bet she'd been looking forward to some adult conversation."

"Oh well." He shrugs, still smiling. "You heard the woman – she wants you to clean your plate."

My gaze falling downward, the first thing I realize is that the meal in front of me is almost exactly what I'd envisioned hospital food to be: bland, mushy and tasteless. The second thing I realize is that eating is going to be more of a challenge than I'd thought. There's a tube flowing by needle into the back of my right hand – my dominant hand, I might add – and moving it even an inch makes it pinch something fierce.

"Might be a little difficult, under the circumstances," I tell him wryly, reluctantly pulling my left hand from his grasp and reaching for the fork. I've got it halfway to the plate when he takes it from my grasp.

"Here, let me do that."

Almost immediately, he picks up the accompanying knife and begins cutting the soft steak into manageable bite-sized pieces. It's kind of cute, actually, seeing Harm doing something so domesticated and giving.

"Open wide," he says, his expression turning impish as he spears a piece of steak on the end of the fork. "Doctor's orders."

He's too quick for me, though. As soon as I open my mouth to retort, he's right there, depositing the tasteless processed meat directly onto my tongue. Glaring at him silently, I close my lips and begin to chew, but my mind quickly flies back to our earlier conversation. _He doesn't want to push things,_ I muse absently. Under normal circumstances I'd probably agree with him, but these are far from normal circumstances. How on earth could I possibly explain that in two years my chances for having a child of my own are literally going to go down the tubes? And that I'm not just being paranoid – I KNOW for a fact that it's going to happen and nothing I can do will stop it?

"How is it?" Those baby blues twinkle as he moves to pick up a second forkful, this time piling on a few beans and some potatoes along with the beef.

Eyeing him thoughtfully, I consider the possibilities. Hmn… I _could_ initiate the I-appreciate-your-concern-for-not-pushing-too-fast-but-time-is-of-the-essence conversation today, but realistically, I have to recover from surgery before we can begin moving forward. So in the meantime I might as well enjoy having him wait on me hand and foot…

"You know, it could use a little salt." I smile saucily, a split second before he feeds me yet another bite.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: According to dialog in the Season 7 episode _Answered Prayers_, the story is set on December 23rd and 24th, 2001 (in one of the opening scenes, Admiral Chegwidden apologizes to Harm and Lt Singer for dropping Petty Officer Coates' case on them "two days before Christmas"). However, the writers obviously adjusted the calendar to accommodate the storyline because December 23rd, the date of the scene in question, was a Sunday that year! As this next chapter coincides with the episode, I am hence making the 23rd a Monday to keep the timing consistent with the events as depicted on the show. All future chapters should reflect the accurate calendar day for the dates in question… unless I build off another episode and discover that the writers had JAG HQ scenes shown on a Sunday. )

**Chapter 6**

Monday  
December 23, 2001  
0323 ZULU (2223 local)  
Mac's Apartment  
Georgetown, Washington D.C.

Giving Chloe a pat on the shoulder as she moves back into the living room, a broad grin on her face as she bubbles giddily at her father's voice, I turn and take a seat at the head of the table. Petty Officer 3rd Class Jennifer Coates is sitting to my left, wearing a borrowed gray sweat suit and an apologetic expression.

It's interesting for me to see Coates as she was back in 2001, facing trial for unauthorized absence from her duty station aboard the U.S.S. Gainesville and going to somewhat creative lengths to get out of Harm's custody. I'd nearly forgotten how she'd first come to the attention of the JAG staff all those years ago, when she'd been arrested impersonating a Salvation Army Santa Claus.

Earlier in the evening, when Harm had come to ask if Jennifer could sleep on my couch, he'd briefly explained the situation and why it was necessary for her to remain under protective supervision… including her nearly-successful attempt to get him to leave her with a 'responsible brother' named Hal. Of course, 'Hal' was revealed to be of no family relation before Harm could fall for the ruse, which was one of the reasons why he'd approached me in the first place.

Looking at Coates thoughtfully now, I'm amazed a how much of a transformation this sarcastic, defensive young woman will undergo over the next three and half years, growing self-confident and secure in her own abilities and responsibilities as an enlisted member of the United States Navy. With the right environment and encouragement, I know that she will blossom in ways that would probably seem impossible to her current self. After all, one of the last times I'd eaten at the Lucky Dream Palace was to celebrate her promotion to Petty Officer 1st Class! But all of that has yet to come, and right now she's looking at me with the wary guilt of someone who knows they've put their foot in their mouth.

"Colonel, I'm… I'm sorry for what I said," she says hesitantly, referring to a comment she'd made a few minutes ago based on mistaken impressions about Harm and myself.

"That's all right." I purposely try to keep my tone warm, more like that of a friend. "But if you want to talk…"

She shoots me an odd glance. "Talk about what?"

Shrugging, I wrap my hands around the mug of tea before me. "Oh, I don't know, your future? You're an electronics technician, right?

"How did you know that, ma'am?"

"Commander Rabb told me. And you're pretty good at it – all fours and fives on your evals, except for conduct."

Jennifer snorts. "Why'd he even bother to look?"

Not for the first time tonight, I'm struck by how different her attitude is when compared to that of the Jennifer Coates I've grown to know over the years. This Coates expects the worst from people instead of taking them at face value, but that's to be expected given her history. Knowing for certain that in time she'll grow out of her current pessimistic outlook, I'm comfortable in being honest with her, rather than trying to affect her future as I have with my own life.

"Because he cares," I answer truthfully.

"He cares so much he spent the day trying to get rid of me," she points out.

"You know, my guess is that you can be pretty annoying, Petty Officer Coates." She certainly used to grate on the admiral's nerves, which always kind of reminded me of someone else we both know… "And the commander doesn't like to be a junior in that department."

Seeing her laugh with me, I decide to shoot straight from the hip. "What are your goals, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Stay out of jail."

"Hmn… lofty ambition." I purposely keep the tone light as I cradle the tea mug between my palms. Based on past experience I figure she'll talk when she's ready. And sure enough, a few seconds later she starts to open up.

"I don't know," she begins. "I… I want a job that I like. Right guy, couple kids. Two out of three would be all right."

Understanding completely, I nod. "You know what that makes you?"

"No, ma'am."

I pause. "Just like the rest of us."

Jennifer thinks it over for a moment. "With all due respect, ma'am, that's easy for you to say. You've got a career, and I'm sure the husband and kids can't be too far behind. I didn't really have a choice…"

She continues on, talking about how her own enlistment was less of a conscious career move and more an effort to avoid time behind bars, but my brain has stopped actively listening. Instead, my thoughts take a massive detour back to what she's just said: _You've _got_ a career, and I'm sure the husband and kids can't be too far behind._

It's one thing to know how Coates turns out, that despite her current situation she will ultimately land on her feet. I also know that I'm doing everything in my power to change the one circumstance about my _own_ life that has or will have the most impact on me in the next few years. Seeking medical attention for the endometriosis before it does any permanent damage has been a step in the right direction, but…

What if it's not enough?

Since my release from Bethesda over a month ago, I really haven't done much about broaching the subject again with Harm. He was wonderful after my surgery, taking care of me for those first 36 hours when I was stuck at home and absolutely miserable, but since then I've allowed myself to fall back into the routine of comfortable friendship. It's just so _nice_ to be friends without all of the emotional baggage that has been piled onto our collective shoulders over the last few years. But hearing Coates talking, it occurs to me that all that baggage took place in my 'other' life, the future that I now have the power to change.

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

Aside from possibly affecting my chances of having a baby a few years down the road, nothing has happened in the last few weeks to push Harm and I past the boundaries we've held onto for so many years. We're still friends, of course, but that's it – only friends. And I know now that, based on the events of said 'other' life, we both want more. We both _deserve_ so much more.

Biting my lip thoughtfully, for the first time since my then-unexpected-but-now-definitely-welcome stone's throw back in time, I realize that nothing will ever change unless I make the first move. But how do I go about it? What should my strategy be?

_Do you need a strategy?_ a little voice cautions from somewhere inside my head.

_Look where we ended up when we left our lives to Fate,_ another voice immediately answers.

"Colonel MacKenzie?"

I snap out of my errant thoughts almost instantly, realizing that I've been staring off into space while Coates has continued right on telling me about... oh hell, what were we discussing?

"Are you all right?" she asks, her voice uncertain as she looks at me like I'm nuts.

"Fine," I cover, and look down into my empty mug. When did I drink it all? "Want some more tea?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." She glances at me with a sudden impishness. "Thinking about Commander Rabb?"

"No," I answer a little too quickly, shooting her a questioning smile, trying to play it off even as my face heats up at the fact that I've been busted. It's none of her business. But now I'm curious. "Why do you ask?"

She smiles knowingly. "The look on your face just now, when it was obvious you weren't hearing a word I said. But you turned all dreamy-eyed at the mention of his name…"

"I did not," I insist.

"…all three times I said it," she grins at me.

_Terrific._

"You know, it might not be a wise idea to talk about your attorney behind his back like this." Okay, that sounds lame even to me.

"He seems like a nice enough guy," she says, ignoring my feeble attempt to change the subject. "Why'd he have to leave so soon? You looked like you were getting cozy over here earlier. He couldn't take his eyes off your pajamas."

Instinctively I look down at my comfy flannel PJs, the ones with the cowboys on them that Chloe bought me for Christmas last year. Chloe! If she mentioned any of her harebrained romantic fantasies about me and Harm to Jennifer Coates—

Seeing the smug expression on Coates' face, I'm abruptly certain that that's exactly what happened. It's too bad I love my 'little sister,' because otherwise I'd be tempted to strangle her right about now for having a big mouth.

"He had a prior commitment," I tell her.

Jennifer's face falls with a sigh. "I take it back. He's not nice at all, if he's going out with another woman when he's so obviously in love with you."

Now I _know_ Chloe said something, and I can't help but set the record straight.

"Harm's been rebuilding his classic Corvette with the help of a friend," I explain. "They've been working on it every Monday night for the last few months, and it's almost finished. If I've got any competition for his affection, it's coming entirely from a car."

The words pop out of my mouth before it dawns on me that I've basically just admitted to being in love with the man… or to his having feelings for me… to his prisoner, who will be spending a lot of time with Harm over the course of the next few days and who has historically _not_ been known for her secret-keeping skills.

_Brilliant, MacKenzie._

Fortunately for me, Jennifer's train of thought seems to have stalled on the mention of Harm's mechanical inclinations.

"He's restoring a car?" she asks, her interest obviously piqued. "That's so cool."

"Yeah, he and Sturgis work on it every chance they get."

"Work on what?" Rejoining us at the table, Chloe drops down heavily into the chair on my right, directly across from Jennifer.

"Done talking with your dad?"

She nods. "He said hi, and wanted me to wish you a Merry Christmas."

It's not until I watch her unsuccessfully attempt to stifle a yawn that I realize the time. Between the emotionally charged phone call with her father and the lateness of the hour, I'm sure Chloe has got to be exhausted. Pushing back from the table, I begin clearing up all the empty tea mugs.

"Chloe, why don't you go grab the Petty Officer some blankets and a pillow out of the linen closet?" I say over my shoulder as I carry everything back into the kitchen.

"Sure." She rises, leaving Coates sitting alone at the table while she heads off in the direction of the bedroom.

"Is there anything I can do to help, ma'am?" Jennifer asks.

"No, thanks." I quickly begin rinsing out the mugs by hand and dropping them into the dish drainer one-by-one. It will be faster if I just do everything myself – we've all got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and should probably get to bed soon.

Thinking about the holiday celebrations planned for tomorrow evening, an idea pops into my head. I'll have to run it by Harm, of course, but I know for a fact he won't object. I glance back at Coates, who has started playing with the end of her braid.

"Some friends of ours are having a small get-together at their home tomorrow night before the church service. You're more than welcome to come," I offer, giving the counter a quick wipe with a sponge.

Out of the corner of my eye, Coates shrugs and shakes her head. I get the distinct impression that she's not really saying no, just that she's uncomfortable. "I don't have anything to wear that's appropriate."

"You can borrow something of mine. I'm sure we can find something. What size shoe do you wear?"

"Eight and a half," she replies automatically. "But I really couldn't—"

"Nonsense." My voice is firm as I dry my hands on a dishtowel and leave the kitchen, passing by her on my way into the living room. "It's Christmas Eve, and there's no way I'm going to let you mope around here feeling sorry for yourself."

She sighs and rises. "You're doing enough for me as it is. I don't want you to go to any more trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. Really," I insist.

Leaning over to grab some of the loose throw pillows off of the sofa, I unconsciously begin taking a mental inventory of the clothing in my closet. Although I start off thinking about what I could possibly loan to Coates that would be appropriate for meeting the rest of the JAG staff at Bud and Harriet's tomorrow evening, soon my thoughts take a more natural turn – what am _I_ going to wear? Do I still have that black silk pantsuit with the red lapels? That's what I wore the same party before, in my 'other' life…

_Bud and Harriet's Christmas party…_

All thoughts of clothing practically fly out the window as the memory of a certain kiss with Harm underneath a sprig of mistletoe immediately comes to mind. My throat goes dry at the thought. What opportunity could be more perfect for me to heat things up a bit and, hopefully, push our relationship forward?

Thinking about that form-fitting suit with the low-cut neckline, the little voice inside my head makes one last appearance:

_Fate has had her chance. Now it's _my_ turn._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Tuesday  
December 24, 2001  
2331 ZULU (1831 local)  
Roberts' Residence  
Rosslyn, Virginia

Letting the tepid water wash over my hands, the quiet atmosphere of Bud and Harriet's powder room is like a soothing balm for my nerves. The party tonight has been amusing, hectic, and frustrating all in one, and I'm relishing the opportunity to take this small moment for myself.

When Tiner first asked Harriet if he could turn the television to ZNN, I'd wondered why he'd been interested in watching the news instead of joining the rest of us in enjoying some non-alcoholic eggnog. Since I'd taken yesterday off and had been running around earlier today, spending some last-minute quality time with Chloe before schlepping her to the airport, I'd completely missed the whole fiasco with the corralled herd of reindeer at NAS Keflavik.

_Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Rudolph, et al, versus the United States Navy…_

It probably hadn't been too funny for the admiral, having to deal with the press and the general public outcry at the captivity of "Santa's" magical sled-pulling team. But shoot, from where I'm sitting now, the whole situation was so completely ridiculous that any person in their right mind can't help but laugh aloud. Chuckling once again at the memory of the base chaplain's creative solution – posing as Santa Claus despite the fact that he's a Jewish rabbi – I squirt some liquid soap into the palm of my hand and begin working it into a lather.

The situation in Iceland has been just part of this evening's gamut of craziness. With everything else that's been going during my six-week sojourn back in time, I'd nearly forgotten about Singer's bracelet – the one she'd gotten from her own serial Santa – and her erroneous accusations against Petty Officer Coates when it mysteriously disappeared out of this very same bathroom. That's where 'hectic' comes in: as before, the rest of the group had gone on a mad hunt for the misplaced jewelry, while Coates had seized the opening and made a run for the proverbial hills. If I'd thought facing the admiral's wrath for letting the petty officer slip away was nerve-racking…

Hell, just seeing Lieutenant Lauren Singer alive and well again has certainly been a completely mind-boggling experience.

The first time I encountered her in this timeline, when I'd returned to work the week following Thanksgiving, was a terrific shock. I think I managed to cover my reaction well, but it was difficult. She certainly didn't say anything if she _did_ notice, which was probably a good thing. After all, how often have I come face-to-face with a colleague who's going to suffer an untimely and brutal death in little over a year? After that initial encounter, I've managed pretty successfully to avoid the junior attorney around the office; it hasn't been too difficult, considering our differing caseloads and schedules. Until tonight, that is. Tonight someone seems to have a wicked sense of humor, because I've been unable to avoid the lieutenant at all.

I look up at the mirror before me. Even though the party has progressed pretty much exactly as I remembered it happening 'before,' when I lived through it the first time, this whole evening has seemed more vivid, more hectic… and all the more frustrating because Singer's still got a nasty way of pissing me off!

A small part of my being feels guilty about wanting to throttle her, considering what she'll face down the road, dying pregnant and alone. But despite knowing what Lauren Singer's future holds, her behavior tonight – from the moment her bracelet disappeared to when Harriet found it on the floor behind the bedroom dresser – has reminded me just how much I disliked the woman. Hearing her harp about her boyfriend's disloyalty and watching her throw baseless accusations at Jennifer Coates, the familiar urge to shake some sense into the witch has come roaring back with a vengeance.

And yet, I now think as I study my reflection, another part of me wishes I could be more sympathetic towards the ill-destined lieutenant. In my past, after Singer was killed, most everyone in the office felt horror and shock upon learning of her death, each of us grieving in our own way despite the conflict she'd thrived upon throughout her time at JAG. She may have been a bitch and a frequent pain in the ass around the office, but she didn't deserve to die the way she did.

Heaving a sigh, I shut off the water and quickly dry my hands. Sometimes you simply have to accept that you'll never like a person and move on. When the time comes, if I'm still in this reality – and to be perfectly frank, I don't want to go back to the future I've already lived through once – I'll say something to Lauren, try to keep her from getting involved in the events that ultimately lead to her death. Until then, though, I might as well enjoy myself a little.

Pinching my cheeks to give them a smidgen of color, I take one last look in the mirror before heading back out into the hallway. It's after six-thirty, which means Harm should be back any minute with Coates. _He's not going to know what hit him._ I smile to myself.

As I pop into the master bedroom to grab my coat and scarf, I hear Harriet's voice from the other room: "Okay, you guys. Let's not be late."

Sure enough, Harm's standing in the living room just as I remembered he would be. I indulge in a brief moment of admiring how sharp he looks in his civilian suit and coat before taking a step forward.

"Hey, you made it." My heart starts pounding in my chest as I step into the room, but I can't help but beam at him. He's my best friend, and he's tall, dark and seriously handsome. How did I ever get so lucky?

His eyes brighten as he sees me, and I'm pleased to see him returning the smile. "Yeah… oh, here. Let me."

It takes an instant before I realize he's offering to help me with my coat. "Oh, thanks," I murmur as he holds it so I can slip my arms into the sleeves. "Great."

"Let me get that," he says softly, and straightens one shoulder for me.

"Thanks."

"Sure." He follows me to the doorway… where we're both standing directly underneath the little sprig of green that's been tacked to the frame. Again. Bless you, Harriet.

Is it technically déjà vu when you know for a fact that you've done this before? Then again, I don't remember having felt this flood of warmth, both from the fluttering in my heart and in other parts of my anatomy, the first time he and I stood here. I love this man, but I'm not kidding when I jokingly tell him, "Uh-oh, awkward moment number three-hundred and ten."

I'm barely breathing.

Together we look upward at the small branch of mistletoe. Then, returning our eyes to each other, we both shrug and exchange small, knowing smiles. After all, who are we to argue with a hallowed Christmas tradition, right? I lean towards him, my gaze dropping to his lips. Those beautiful lips…

The next I know, those same lips are pressing wonderfully against my own and I'm in heaven. I can't get enough. Whatever plans I'd made before walking into the living room a few moments ago have flown out of my mind, leaving me helpless to control what's now happening between us. Without conscious thought I find myself melting into him, relaxing into the solid wall of his body as the kiss deepens, my lips parting slightly of their own accord.

A small moan of pleasure wells up inside as Harm takes advantage of that brief opportunity, his tongue slipping past my defenses to lightly taste my own. It's not a wholly consuming, no-holds-barred passionate kiss, but it's a hell of a lot more intimate than anything he and I have shared before. His long fingers weave their way up my shoulders to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as my own arms begin to snake around his waist, the scarf in my hand forgotten as I lose myself…

And then he's pulling back, his hands dropping back down to my shoulders, gently but deliberately widening the space between our bodies. The chilled air against the nape of my neck and my sensitive lips leaves me feeling bereft. My eyes flutter open.

Harm's looking down at me, his expression quizzical and awestruck all at once, mirroring the tumult of unexpected emotions coursing through my own hammering chest. We stand there for the briefest of moments, simply staring at each other.

"Harriet's going to wonder where we are." His voice is nothing more than a throaty whisper, but the soft twinkle in his eyes and the trace of curving at the corners of his mouth reassure me like no words can.

"We should get going," I agree, my own voice scratchy and hoarse as we smile at each other. Why am I suddenly feeling so shy?

_Because that kiss lasted about two full minutes longer than you remembered,_ I think to myself. Having an internal clock that's accurate almost down to the second can be a serious nuisance at times.

Fortunately, further words are unnecessary as we step out into the hallway, Harm closing the door securely behind him before following me down the two flights of steps. I can really only speak for myself, but I can imagine that he's grateful for the silence as well since it gives us both time to compose ourselves before we emerge from the building to face our friends, who are undoubtedly wondering what's taking us so long.

Sure enough, Lieutenant Harriet 'Eagle Eye' Sims is waiting on the sidewalk outside, along with Petty Officer Coates. No one else is in sight.

"Everything all right, Commander?" Harriet approaches us as soon as we open the door.

"Just wanted to make sure everything was locked up," he covers nicely, giving both her and Jennifer a friendly smile.

Harriet smiles in thanks and looks between the three of us, pausing only to say, "See you at the church, then." With one last grin she disappears off in the direction of the street, where I spot Bud waiting patiently with little A.J. in the family minivan.

"Shall we?" Gesturing to Coates and myself to go first, Harm falls into an easy step behind us as we make our way over to where his Lexus is parked.

"I can't remember the last time I set foot into a church," Jennifer comments absently as we climb into the car. 

"Been a while, huh?" Buckling my safety belt, I twist around from the front passenger seat to look back at her. "I understand your father is a minister."

She snorts. "Hence why I avoid churches."

Although Jennifer has never mentioned her father to me, either over the last two days or over the course of our whole working relationship in my 'other' life, I get the impression that most of her childhood was spent rebelling against organized religion. From Harm's brief explanation last night of his encounter with the Reverend Coates, and from Jennifer's own tone of voice now, I find myself wanting to provide her with some reassurance.

"Well, Chaplain Turner – he'll be giving the sermon tonight – is the father of one of our colleagues at JAG. I've never met the man himself, but if he's anything like his son, I have a feeling you'll find tonight's service different than those you've been used to in the past."

I don't expect an acknowledgement from her as I turn back to look out the windshield, and sure enough I don't get one. The three of us spend the rest of the car ride to the church in quiet, contemplative silence. A light snow has begun to fall, dusting the world around us with a pristine blanket of white, fluffy flakes.

_Will we have a white Christmas this year?_ I wonder. _There's just something special about a white Christmas._

Soon we're entering the sanctuary, filing in along with the other military personnel and civilians alike who have come to hear tonight's Christmas Eve sermon. To my surprise, the rows closest to the altar have been reserved for our party, probably thanks to Chaplain Turner. I allow myself to be ushered into the second pew on the right, next to Singer, while Admiral Chegwidden, Harm and Coates take seats directly in front of us. The rest of the group is seated directly across the aisle.

But where's Sturgis?

The service is about to start when he finally arrives. Sliding over a few inches to make some room in the pew at his "Hey," I can't help smiling warmly when Harm turns to shake his hand.

It's so nice to see the two of them on friendly terms. _Whatever happened to their friendship?_ I ask myself, reflecting on the changes that have separated them… or will separate them… in the not-so-distant future. Seeing each of them now, in December 2001, with their welcoming smiles and amiable banter, a pang of regret pierces my happy mood as I think back to when things started to go downhill. It all started with Paraguay, or rather after Paraguay, when the admiral staunchly refused to reinstate Harm's commission and instead forced Sturgis to take his good friend's office…

I close my eyes and give my head a sharp shake. No, I'm not going to think about this, not now, and not here. Opening my eyes again, I look up at where Chaplain Turner stands regally at the pulpit. There will be time soon enough for me to figure out how I might repair some of the damage that has, or will be, done.

"When God revealed Himself to us, He did so through a family…"

_That's what we are, a family,_ I think, listening as the chaplain begins his annual Christmas sermon. _All of the people here sitting around me are my family. There's nothing more important… and I want it to stay that way._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Wednesday  
January 2, 2002  
2244 ZULU (1744 local)  
Mac's Apartment  
Georgetown, Washington D.C.

Closing the refrigerator door with a satisfying 'thud,' I efficiently fold the paper grocery bag and stow it neatly underneath the kitchen sink. After barely more than a week I finally have my apartment entirely to myself again, and it's not a moment too soon. Having Chloe around was wonderful, but when Harm had approached me ten days ago with a request to put Petty Officer Coates up for the night, little had I remembered how much of an impact the extra company would have both on my personal space… and on my sanity. Granted, she'd had nowhere else to go – with the restricted barracks at Anacostia closed down until after the holiday, it was either sleep on my sofa or behind bars at the Anacostia brig – but even so, a week of living with the impulsive, headstrong petty officer would have been enough to try the patience of a saint. And heaven only knows I'm a far cry from Mother Teresa.

Fortunately the restricted barracks reopened this morning, and Harm was here promptly at oh-nine-hundred to take the good petty officer off my hands.

I grab a clean glass from the cupboard and fill it from the tap, but get no further than a single sip when the ring of my cell phone pierces what had been an otherwise soothing silence. I heave a sigh and set the glass back down on the counter top.

My purse is sitting on one of the chairs in the dining room. Fishing out the phone, I flip it open. "Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie."

"Hey, Mac, it's me. Are you at home?"

I have to laugh. It's Harm, of course. Who else would be calling me on my day off? Taking the phone with me, I retrieve my abandoned water glass from the kitchen counter. "Yeah, I'm at home. Why?"

"I tried calling your landline but didn't get an answer."

"Ringer's off," I explain briefly, smiling ruefully to myself. That was one of the things I'd made a point of doing when I first got home from the supermarket, unplugging the cordless and turning the volume on the answering machine all the way down. It's SOP for me when I need time to myself to unwind… but apparently today I'd forgotten about my cell. _Oh well, live and learn._ "What's up?"

"Interested in going for a spin?"

An idea tickles along the back fringes of my mind. "Harm, where are you?" I ask abruptly, eyes narrowing. There's a pause.

"Down in front of your building," he finally says. I can hear the sheepish tone in his voice, and it makes me want to laugh.

"Stay there." I smile, setting the glass of water back down yet again. "I just need to grab my coat."

A few minutes later I'm bounding down the steps out of the building, not even halfway out the door before I spot Harm's now fully restored Corvette idling impatiently alongside the curb. This time I give into the urge and chuckle out loud. Ever since Christmas Eve he's been practically inseparable from his beloved car, which he's been driving at every possible opportunity. I suppose that's understandable, considering how he painstakingly rebuilt the entire machine after it met such an unfortunate early demise. Crossing over to the passenger side, I open the door and slide on in.

"Out for an 'after work' drive, huh?" I smile, noting how boyish he looks when he grins. He's obviously happy as a clam, having his 'Vette back. Happiness becomes him… I've missed seeing Harm smile.

"I was in the neighborhood." He shrugs, pulling out into traffic. "Thought I'd see if you were around."

"Hmn…" Nodding, I lean back into the bucket seat with an impish smile, letting my head relax comfortably against the hard leather. I checked the caller ID on my home phone before heading out the door. "So that's why you called my house four times in the last twenty minutes?"

He's at least got the good grace to admit when he's been caught. "Okay, so I wasn't _exactly_ in the neighborhood. But I didn't want to go home just yet."

Something in his voice directs me to ask, "How's Sergei?"

"He's fine," Harm hedges, smoothly shifting gears as we turn towards downtown D.C. After a few moments, he sighs. "It's nice having him around but my apartment's not big enough for the two of us."

Two alpha males, especially of Rabb descent, in a one-bedroom apartment even as spacious as Harm's, are bound to run into territorial issues sooner or later. "Kind of getting on your nerves, huh?"

"Don't get me wrong, Mac, I'm glad he's here. I mean, he's safe, and he's happy—"

"But he's turning into the stereotypical annoying little brother?"

Harm sighs again. "Sooner than I expected," he concedes. "I'm not used to having someone else around me twenty-four-seven. I guess I'm just itching for a little time to myself."

"So the first thing you do is come to see me."

He glances over with an amused smile. "You've never tried to take over my kitchen. There's only so much borscht I can take."

"Made with full-fat sour cream, no doubt." I laugh.

He doesn't answer except for a soft smile that mirrors my own. No more words are spoken for a while as we sit companionably side-by-side, the stillness only punctuated every now and again by the sound of shifting gears. I'd forgotten what it was like to be able to spend time with another person and not feel the awkward need to fill the void with idle talk. There's only one person I've ever been comfortable enough with:

_Harm._

Soon we're pulling back up in front of my building. When I realize where we are, and how dark it has become, I'm surprised to discover that nearly an hour has passed since we left to go on our drive around town. Sometimes I'm amazed at how quickly time passes, especially when I'm least expecting it.

"Thanks for coming with me, Mac," he says as the car comes to a stop. I look up from unbuckling my seatbelt. The plaintive note in his voice, coupled with the soft expression in his eyes, sets me thinking. It's almost like he doesn't want to go home. And truthfully, I'm not sure I want him to go home just yet – this has turned into a really pleasant evening. It's too bad it can't last: we both have to work in the morning. Before my brain can jump in, however, my mouth is ready to extend the invitation.

"Want to come up for a little while?" I hear myself ask.

His eyes glint as he looks over at me. "As long as you don't have any beets laying around."

"No beets, I promise." I grin.

Within minutes Harm has parked the 'Vette and we're heading up to my apartment. Unlocking the door, I enter the living room first and flip on the lights.

"Make yourself at home." Unbuttoning my coat, I saunter over to the dining area and drop it onto the nearest chair along with my purse, scarf and gloves. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure."

I toe off my shoes and pad into the kitchen, leaving Harm alone for a moment as I grab the kettle and fill it with water. Setting it onto the stove a moment later, I hear the sound of the television turning on in the other room.

"Hey, Mac?"

"Yeah?" I ask, heading back into the living room. Harm's sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and clutching the remote control in one hand. I hadn't noticed before, but he must have gone home before swinging by to see if I wanted to go for a ride, because he's wearing a nicely fitting charcoal gray pullover with that same well-worn pair of jeans. I also note that he's taken the liberty of turning off all of the lights except for the one at the end of the couch.

"You mind if we watch this?" he says, gesturing towards the screen.

"You? Wanting to watch TV?" My voice is edged with humorous disbelief. I don't think the man has even owned a television since 1996! "Okay, who are you, and what have you done with Harm?"

He lifts a hand to his chest as though taking offense, but I can see the laughter in his eyes as he declares, "I happen to like this movie."

Harmon Rabb, Junior, admitting that he likes something on television? This I have _got_ to see.

"What is it?" I ask, plopping down next to him. As I move to tuck my bare feet up under my legs, my upper body torques sideways to counterbalance my weight and brushes up against his left arm.

"Groundhog Day," Harm replies with a glance down at me. For a moment I'm both disappointed and relieved that he didn't notice the accidental contact, but then he leans backwards and wraps his left arm around my shoulders, pulling me easily back against him. "Here, relax."

Truthfully, sitting this way _is_ easier on my lower back. And I've been hoping to get closer to Harm, haven't I? After all, we've been on more of the same page than ever since my laparoscopy six weeks ago, but things will never change unless one of us makes the first move. What better place to start than the two of us, in civvies and barefoot in the dark, snuggling up together on my couch?

I'm working up the nerve to rest my head on his shoulder when a light, but definite, touch along my left arm garners my attention. His right hand is resting comfortably on the pillow beside him while his left hand is tracing an idle path up and down my arm. I try to concentrate on the movie – Bill Murray's character has just started his marathon of ultimately unsuccessful suicide attempts – but it's difficult with the shivers that Harm's fingers are sending down my spine.

Finally I can't stand it anymore. Turning my head ever so slightly, I lift my gaze and find him staring down back at me, our faces mere inches apart. Could it possibly be that he's feeling the same bolts of electricity that have suddenly begun coursing their way through my body?

His fingers continuing their leisurely caresses, my eyes begin to drift shut as his head descends towards mine and…

The shrill whistle of the blasted teakettle begins to sound from off in the kitchen.

"Damn it," I mutter, opening my eyes.

The spell has certainly been broken. Pushing away from Harm as I scramble off the couch, I practically stumble my way towards the kitchen, where an angry white plume of steam is spewing forth from atop the stove. The sound of water at a furious boil and the kettle's high-pitched scream pierce the otherwise silent apartment.

The strident screeching subsides as soon as I move the teakettle off the hot burner. It isn't until I reach for two mugs out of the cupboard, though, that I realize my hands are trembling. Hell, my whole body is trembling. Between the arousal of nearly kissing Harm and then the subsequently unexpected interruption, my heart is pounding with excitement.

_Get a grip, MacKenzie!_ I order myself, letting my head drop down as I struggle to regain some semblance of control. Somehow I know deep down that tonight is _not_ the night for us to have another of our infamous miscommunications.

I'm still standing with my back to the kitchen door when I hear Harm's voice say my name. Turning around, I see him leaning casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets. Boy, do I love how this man looks! The way that crewneck sweater contours to every curve of his long, lean, muscular torso… is it possible to start drooling simply at the sight of a gorgeous male specimen? Not wanting to test the theory, I turn back around and reach for the nearest cupboard.

"What kind of tea do you want?" I ask, flipping through the boxes on the bottom shelf. "Let's see, I've got earl grey, green tea, orange pekoe, vanilla spice… or I've got a nice chamomile if you want something decaffeinated—"

"Mac," he repeats, stepping into the room. "Forget the tea for a minute."

Slowly I turn around again to face him. He looks a little exasperated, frustrated but amused all at the same time, and I find myself chuckling involuntarily. This is absurd – put Harm and me in a situation where we're facing our attraction to one another and one of us will inevitably come across like a nervous teenager, complete with an extraordinary knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Well, no more… I've seen what can happen when we push our feelings aside for fear of ruining our friendship. Why not take the different path?

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

"Okay," I say, putting a little flirtation into my smile as I lean back into the counter, "no tea. Did you have something else in mind, sailor?" 

He deliberately glances around the room as he takes another step forward. He's only a pace or two away from me now. "I can think of a few things…"

"Now that I think about it, so can I." Pushing off of the counter, my eyes don't stray from his as I close the gap between us. The urge to throw my arms around his neck is nearly irresistible but I manage to hold the impulse in check, settling instead for lifting my hands to his chest.

"Really? Like what?" he persists, his face tilting down towards mine.

_Oh no, not quite yet…_ My inner mischief-maker comes to the fore. 

"Are you sure you don't want some tea?" I grin. Spinning in his arms and pulling away, I return to the counter and blindly grab the first box I see. I've barely gotten the teabags out of their packaging when two strong arms snake their way around my waist, Harm's warmth drawing up close behind me. Instinctively biting my lower lip, I close my eyes and fold my hands over his, tilting back into him. To my surprise, his body is trembling almost as much as mine.

"Positive," he murmurs, lowering his head.

The feel of his lips against my neck, just beneath my jaw line, is nearly too much for me to take. He's trailing a hot wet path down the side of my neck, and my hands cover his as he gently rubs his palms back and forth just below my ribcage. Not wanting to let him have all the fun, I arch my back a bit, pressing my backside firmly against him. Oh, yeah…

We've gone from mild petting to full-court-press in less than four minutes. Three minutes and forty-eight seconds, to be precise.

However, as much as I'm enjoying myself, there's something I've got to tell him before this progresses any further. Opening my mouth, I attempt to say his name but all that comes out is a low, guttural moan. _Not a good sign,_ I think giddily, and try again.

"Harm?" _That's better._

"Mm hmn?" he mumbles into my hair. 

"I want more than just a one-night-stand," I blurt out. 

It takes a minute for my words to penetrate, but as soon as they do his hands go still. "Mac…" Harm's voice is but a husky whisper in my ear. "I want more, too. A lot more."

"You're sure?" My eyes fluttering open, I turn around and meet his gaze. We're so close that I can feel his breath warming my cheeks. 

Instead of answering, he closes the last few inches between us.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Thursday  
January 3, 2002  
1044 ZULU (0544 local)  
Mac's Apartment  
Georgetown, Washington D.C.

_When was the last time I slept this well?_

That thought circles through my mind as I snuggle deeper into what dimly registers as a heavenly cocoon of warmth. Beginning to emerge from the deep recesses of the most wonderful dream, my subconscious registers a sense of well-being and security that I don't want to let go. It's going on oh-six-hundred, which means it's nearly time to get up for work, but I ignore that reality and burrow down further, snuggling up to the heat of the body that's lying next to mine. A hot, male body… a very _naked_ male body…

Smiling softly to myself as the last vestiges of sleep drift away, I'm amazed at how refreshed I feel despite the fact that I haven't moved an inch. For the first time in ages I didn't spend the night tossing and turning in search of sleep – so this is what it feels like to be really rested. After years of insomnia, I've finally found a cure!

And how ironic, considering how much actual sleep I _didn't_ get last night.

With a long, luxurious sigh I snake my arms further around his torso, savoring the feel of his skin underneath my fingers. I could lay here forever. His breathing is slow and regular, and I can hear his heart beating steadily beneath where my ear rests comfortably against his chest. What more can a woman ask for besides waking up beside the man she loves more than life itself, around him, like this…

A little voice in the back of my mind tells me I'm not the only one who's awake here.

I open my eyes a crack, tilting my head back to look up at him. Sure enough, Harm is peering back at me with a drowsy, relaxed and satisfied expression that undoubtedly mirrors my own. He flashes me a sleepier version of the smile I know so well.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he murmurs.

Holding back a laugh at the way his hair is standing up in a million different directions, I pull myself up a few extra inches to drop a wake-up kiss on his lips.

"Morning." I grin, mumbling against his mouth. For the briefest of moments I let myself indulge in his taste. Mmm, what wouldn't I give to remain in this man's arms forever? Maybe work can wait a little while longer…

A few minutes later, I'm stretching languidly against him, easing away from his delectable lips. Even after last night – and God, what a night! – I still can't get enough of this man. Keeping my eyes closed I give him a tight squeeze and bury my face in his neck, the wish to play hooky from work stronger than ever. But unfortunately, as much as I wish we could stay in bed, the cold breath of duty looms on the horizon of our day. Finally forcing myself back to life, I lift my head and look him straight in the eye.

"Sleep well?" I ask.

He thinks about it for a moment. "Maybe."

_Maybe?_ "Just what's that supposed to mean?" I smile questioningly.

"Well…" he hedges with a boyish shrug, his mouth quirking up in an effort not to smile as his hands tighten teasingly around my waist.

"Quit trying to distract me." My grin softens the blow as I swat ineffectually at the fingers trailing up my side. "What do you mean, 'maybe'?"

He sighs, as though explaining the obvious. "I might have slept better if someone hadn't kept me up."

I arch an eyebrow suggestively. "You didn't need my help staying 'up'."

"That wasn't quite what I meant." He chuckles, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and up my spine. God, I love his grin.

"Ohhhhh," I play along with a smile, "so then what _did_ you mean?"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep, Marine?"

There's a certain smugness in his voice, like he's got a secret that he's dying to share. I roll my eyes in protest. "I do not."

"Do too."

"I do _not_," I repeat a little more forcefully.

"Do too." He nods childishly, eyes dancing. He's clearly enjoying himself, albeit at my expense. Fine, then, I'll keep this going… for now.

"Assuming you're right – and I'm not admitting that you are – what did you think I said?"

"Well…" He draws out the word to keep me in suspense. "You kept screaming my name, for one."

I stifle a laugh, my hand drifting a little lower down the plane of his stomach. Two can play this game. "Hate to break it to you, but I was awake for that."

"And then you were mumbling something about taking a trip… coming, or going, I forget." He grins, valiantly ignoring my attempts to divert him from this discussion.

"I vaguely remember that, too." I smile, leaning over to give him a kiss as my wandering hand finds its destination. What can I say? After all these years, I need to make up for lost time.

"Then at some point you told me that you love me…"

My hand stills.

_You told me that you love me._ For an instant my heart stutters, stopping and then speeding up as the import of what Harm's just said makes full impact on my otherwise sleep-addled brain. All trace of teasing in his expression is gone.

"I did?" My voice is barely a whisper.

He nods imperceptibly, his eyes never breaking contact with mine.

Somewhere deep inside, I know there's only one of two ways this will end: either one of us will back away, as has always happened in the past, or we can brave the unknown and step forward into our future. One of us has to make that first, terrifying step… and the ball is in my court.

Swallowing dryly, I lick my lips in hesitation. _If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment…_ Well, here goes nothing.

"I do. I do love you." I exhale, unable to really speak because my breath has suddenly caught in my lungs. Thankfully it seems that Harm can read lips, because his eyes widen and his grip on my ribcage tightens. That's all the reassurance I need. My own eyes filling with unexpected tears, I whisper shyly, "More than you know."

A humongous weight of regret lifts from my shoulders as he gives a shy smile in return… or maybe it's just a lower-wattage version of the look of satisfaction he gets whenever he wins a case in court. Either way, the air of happiness in his eyes is unmistakable.

"I love you, too," he murmurs, leaning forward. "I have for years."

Our lips meet tenderly, a sensual caress that makes my heart melt with a profound sense of joy. For a moment I lose myself in the heat of his kiss, relishing the fact that we've finally broken through the last of the barriers that had stymied our relationship for so long in my 'other' life…

My 'other' life. It suddenly occurs to me that I didn't even so much as _think_ about protection last night, nor, apparently, did Harm. Considering the circumstances of my diminished fertility, our failure to use birth control isn't necessarily a bad thing, but still, we need to talk about it. And if there's one thing I've learned over the last two months, it's that there's no time like the present. Giving his lower lip one last nibble, I reluctantly pull back.

"What?" he asks softly, sensing my sudden hesitation.

"I…" Unable to meet his gaze, my eyes drop involuntarily to his collarbone. "You know when I had my laparoscopy?"

His face furrows in confusion, probably wondering why I'm bringing this up now. "For the endometriosis?"

"Yeah." I nod.

"I thought they gave you a clean bill of health."

"They did."

The frown line in his forehead deepens. "Then what's on your mind?"

My heart feels like it's beating unnecessarily fast, but my logical mind knows that it's just nerves. I take a shaky breath. "I… I don't know you if you remember, but the doctor also said that my chances of having a baby are less than the norm for a woman my age."

"She said you still have an eighty to eighty-five percent chance, Mac."

My eyes shoot back up to his in surprise. I guess he really HAD been paying attention.

"For now," I concede. "But the fact is, those odds are going to be considerably lower some day. Who knows what they're going to be three years down the road?"

_Five percent,_ I think angrily to myself. _An unfair, measly five percent._

At the mention of three years, his face relaxes a little. "You're still worried that you won't be able to keep your end of our deal?"

Lowering my chin, I give a faint nod. "Yeah. I am."

For a moment we lay together in silence. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I could hear the gears turning in Harm's head. I just wish I knew _what_ he was thinking.

"You know, Mac," he finally says after a bit, "we could always move up the timetable. There's no reason why we have to wait another two and a half years."

"Are you sure?" The words are out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to intervene. "When did you have in mind?"

He looks up at me, eyes sparkling in the early morning light as his mouth quirks up into a devilishly handsome grin. "Well, if memory serves, we didn't take any precautions last night."

I can't help but tentatively return the smile. "We didn't, did we?"

"And I'm guessing you're not on the pill."

"Nope," I confirm with a shake of my head, my smile turning into a full-fledged grin.

"So then what do you say, Marine? Want to go halves on that kid now?" he asks, causing my heart to flip fully over in my chest.

I pause for all of a half a second. "Thought you'd never ask," I murmur against his lips, pushing up onto one leg and straddling him as he pulls the covers over our heads with a flyboy grin.

So much for being on time to work.

* * *

Tuesday  
January 8, 2002  
2022 ZULU (1522 local)  
JAG Headquarters  
Falls Church, Virginia 

After nine years and one wholly inexplicable trip backwards in time, I still can't believe that Harm and I have not only crossed the line from friends into lovers, but we've begun pursuing in the fulfillment of the pact we'd made so long ago.

I just wish he were here.

One of the disadvantages of serving in the military in general, and the JAG corps in particular, is that one or both of us could be sent out into the field at any given moment for any number of reasons. We'd only been 'together' for three days and two blissful nights when Harm was unexpectedly dispatched out to the _USS Patrick Henry_ for a mishap investigation. I'm sure he's happy as a clam hanging out in his old stomping grounds, but I don't know when he'll be back and my latest assignment is beginning to stress me out something fierce.

Rubbing my temple in a futile effort to relieve the headache that's been forming all afternoon, I turn back to the paperwork sitting on my desk and try to concentrate. This whole thing started right after Harm left for the _Henry_ – it figures that my newfound ability to sleep is contingent on whether or not he's next to me in bed. It began as an innocuous nightmare but has since escalated into full-blown, uncontrollable visions about a woman whom I'd never met in life. What is it about Commander Laura Aiken that has my subconscious so totally obsessed? At least this time around I know how it ends, know whose buttons to push to get to the answers and solve the otherwise incomprehensible mystery surrounding Aiken's death… but knowing in advance hasn't stopped the visions from coming. If anything, they're stronger than the ones I remember from my past life. Maybe it's because this time I know what to look for.

I will say that working with Sturgis on this case has once more proven to be both a godsend and a major pain in the butt.

Harm's being out of town means that I can't turn to him for support, at least not the kind of support that I _want_. We've talked on the phone a couple of times, but it's not the same – all I need is for him to hold me, to be cradled safely in his arms – and all I've got is his voice coming through the static of a sat-phone. I think Sturgis knows that I'm feeling a little off kilter, because he's tried more than once over the last few days to cheer me up in his own way:

_'Scary' weird, or 'naked-in-front-of-the-Marine-Corps-band' weird?_ was his reaction when I mentioned that first dream about Commander Aiken.

Chuckling at the memory, I absently tap my pen on the page in front of me. My amusement is fleeting, however, because for every time Sturgis has made me smile he's also frustrated me to no end. Mostly it's just personality differences. Rationally, I know this. But he also keeps subtly pressing for information about my relationship with Harm, information which I'm not ready to share. Quite frankly, it's still all so _new_ that I want to savor these precious days of peace and quiet, when it's just him and me… and because I know that all hell will break loose in the building when Harriet finds out that we're now officially a couple.

I've just managed to read a full paragraph when there's a knock at my door. Oh gee, what a surprise.

"Yeah, Sturgis?" I ask, keeping my tone light.

To his credit, he stands there looking a little remorseful. Maybe he feels bad for being such a jerk earlier. Of course, I haven't been in the greatest of moods lately, which hasn't helped for pleasant working relations either.

"I want to apologize for the things I said before, Colonel," he offers.

"I'm good at making you do that," I deadpan.

"What, saying the wrong things, or apologizing?"

It seems that Commander Turner has indeed come to call a truce. I think for a brief second. "Both."

"You see, I never feel on solid ground with you. The ground… always seems to be shifting," he comments.

"That's because my life is an earthquake, Commander," I tell him wryly, thinking of everything that's happened to me in the last few days and months… hell, in the last few years. After all, how many people could endure everything I've had to endure and come away without feeling the least bit shaken? It's nice, though, to see that Sturgis is at least _trying_ to patch things up. "Have a seat. Please?"

Smiling, I continue as he accepts and takes one of the chairs in front of my desk. "See, I actually think we make a good team. You're a little cerebral and detail-oriented, and I'm neither one of those things," I smile self-deprecatingly, "so it kind of works in a 'Laurel and Hardy' sort of way."

To my astonishment, he does a recognizable impersonation of Stan Laurel.

"Oh, I'm the fat one?" I tease.

My indignity is feigned, but he apparently takes it at face value.

"Uh-huh, you know what? This _is_ your problem," he says with a chuckle, but his expression is suddenly a lot more serious. "You don't do this any better with Harm."

Why can't the man take the hint that I don't want to talk to him about my connection with Harm? And I vividly remember how this conversation turned out the _last_ time we had it. Nope, uh-uh, not going there again. There's no way I'll make _that_ mistake a second time. "No, no, no. That's different," I reply.

"In what way?" he questions.

"It just is," I counter a little too defensively. Talk about a schoolgirl's answer. _Way to get him to drop the topic, MacKenzie. Acting like an eleven year-old is only going to egg him on._ Suddenly I feel like I'm on the losing end of an argument and am grasping at straws just to keep myself afloat.

Leaning thoughtfully to one side, he remarks, "There seems to be a certain tension with you two."

_Good grief, the man's like a bloodhound hot on the scented trail!_ "Some," I hedge.

"A lot," he amends, as if I don't know just how much 'tension' there is between Harm and myself.

"Look, you're missing the point, Sturgis." Do _I_ even know what the point of this discussion is any more? My ability to talk calmly and rationally is being chased out of my office by the overwhelming fatigue of these past couple of days. I force myself to relax back into my chair, knowing I need to avoid bringing sex into the discussion.

Then in my split-second musing, it occurs to me that it might not be such a bad idea to shut the door. While some might enjoy hearing our conversation, I really don't want the entire bullpen eavesdropping.

Sturgis looks like he knows I'm hiding something… and he'd be right. "C'mon, Mac."

"Harm and I have always managed to keep our relationship professional." _Well, at least we did up until last Thursday night,_ I silently amend.

"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise," he cautions, throwing up a hand. "But when two single partners of the opposite sex work closely together, they understandably walk a fine line. Sometimes that line is too easily crossed and then it becomes something they have to learn to live with."

I can't stop myself. "We wouldn't just have a one-time fling."

"Is that the problem?" Sturgis asks.

_Great, just great._

"There is no problem," I snap. Pushing back from my desk, I rise and head for the door. I don't want to continue this argument without closing it, but Sturgis doesn't take the hint. He relentlessly presses forward, full steam ahead.

"Then why don't you just get over it and move on?"

"It wouldn't work," I grind out as I stalk around him.

"Why?"

My frustration finally boils over as I swing the door shut. "Because I'm in LOVE with him!"

The words echo through my office. For a moment I can't believe what has popped out of my mouth.

_I cannot have just done that for the second time,_ I think, but who the hell am I kidding? Blurting out my feelings for Harm once was bad enough, and now I've gone and done it _twice!_ The disbelief that I've allowed Sturgis to provoke and anger me into losing control yet again rises up like a hot ball of denial and helplessness in my throat.

Real déjà vu is overwhelming as I turn slowly around to face him, my voice quiet in the silence. "Did I say that?"

From the expression on Sturgis' face, it's plain that I did. Again.

I step over to the chair beside him, walking in what feels like a fog of memory overlapping reality, and slowly take a seat.

"You have to keep that to yourself," I finally tell him. Only this time, my request isn't to keep Sturgis from telling Harm, but rather to protect our fledgling relationship until we're ready to make it known to the rest of the world. How hurt would Bud and Harriet be if they were to find out about me and Harm from a third party?

"Okay." He agrees, but there's a bit of hesitation in his tone.

Or am I imagining it? Still, I don't want to take any chances. "I mean it, Sturgis," I say earnestly.

He looks thoughtful. "So do I."

Nodding in agreement as I sit quietly next to him, I realize that there is a bright side to this whole situation. At least now, from prior experience, I know that Sturgis is capable of keeping a secret.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Tuesday  
March 26, 2002  
2127 ZULU (1627 local)  
JAG Headquarters  
Falls Church, Virginia

Nearly three months have passed since that awkward discussion with Sturgis in my office. My relationship with Harm has settled into something comfortable and familiar, and while we've still had our ups and downs, I wouldn't trade being with him in this new-and-improved timeline for anything. Just knowing that we're together now – really, truly together – has given me a sense of security and peace unlike anything I've ever known. And it's evident that Harm feels the same way. Not only has he finally found the words to express how he feels, the harmony of our personal lives has managed to spill over into the professional forum. We still argue, to be sure, but even Admiral Chegwidden has commented in recent weeks on how well Harm and I have been getting along lately. Who would have thought?

And who would've thought I'd like wearing my hair short again? When I'd first realized that I'd be stuck in this timeline indefinitely, I'd toyed with the idea of starting to let it grow out the way I had 'before'. But in the last three months I've come to realize one surprisingly simple thing: short hair is a heck of a lot easier to deal with! Not to mention it's more stylish with this cut and color – I actually LIKE looking at myself in the mirror now, sometimes at home just for the heck of it, to see how cute and flirty I look. And it's amazing how much longer a bottle of shampoo lasts.

Hair style aside, this is the first time since January that I've really found it necessary to use the knowledge of my past to change what is now quite clearly my future. The case Harm and I have been working on these last couple of days may prove to be a little tricky in that respect. I remember the entire case, of course – how it ultimately turned out and why – but I've been treading lightly since Admiral Chegwidden first brought Harm and me onto the loop yesterday morning.

The problem is that I also recall a certain piece of information vital to the final outcome of the case, the linchpin, as it were: the al-Qaeda connections of ZNN associate producer Ginny Baker, who surreptitiously communicated the coordinates of a SEAL team in Afghanistan to terrorist forces. The means by which this came to light happened a lot later in the game the last time Harm and I argued this case, and while I could probably wait for the clues to reveal themselves once more, the pragmatist in me doesn't want to run the risk of things turning out differently. It's too important. Somehow, I need to figure out how to reveal Baker's duplicity and convince Harm that it's important for us to investigate her further… and I have to somehow do it without telling him how I came to know what I know in the first place.

He and I are now sitting opposite each other at the table in the conference room, where we've been poring over satellite video footage and the case file for most of the afternoon. It's an interesting situation, the only example of its kind that I've ever encountered during my nine years stationed at JAG Headquarters… or six years at this point… Anyway, regardless, it's an unusual scenario: a media correspondent embedded with a military unit in Afghanistan makes clandestine video contact with his news desk, thereby compromising the mission and resulting in the deaths of four Afghani non-combatants when his associate producer turns out to have a first cousin in the Taliban. Harm and I have been assigned to handle prosecution of the case against him, which can be brought to court martial under a rarely-used-but-perfectly-applicable article of the UCMJ.

Unfortunately, it's just our luck that the correspondent in question is Stuart Dunston of ZNN, who has an ego bigger than the combined square mileage of Texas, Oklahoma and New Mexico.

"There's got to be some way to trace the coordinates from the video transmission back to the Taliban forces," Harm is saying, running through the known facts for the millionth time. "Dunston's responsible for this mess. There's no other explanation."

I glance over at the television, considering the best way to answer. "What if Dunston didn't know? What if the hostiles received their information after he made the call?"

"The sat phone was beamed directly to ZNN. Unless someone in the area had satellite capabilities, there's no way anyone could have intercepted the outgoing transmission."

Watching as he sits back in his chair, characteristically folding his arms across his chest, I'm suddenly struck with an idea as to how to proceed. Instead of centering our investigation immediately around Ginny Baker…

"That's assuming that the Taliban received their information from inside Afghanistan," I point out, a flood of confidence washing through me. This is the right approach. I just know it. I lean forward and rest my elbows on the solid wood of the tabletop. "What if they were tipped off by someone stateside?"

"You think someone at ZNN might have been involved?" Harm's eyes darken. "Mac, you're talking treason."

"It's a possibility I don't think we should ignore." I shrug. "Look, I'm not suggesting that we run background checks on all ZNN employees. But we _do_ know the exact time the transmission was received here in Washington, and that the SEAL unit was attacked less than an hour later. It's reasonable to assume that the coordinates were provided to the Taliban shortly after Dunston signed off. Probably within minutes."

"Do we know who was privy to the incoming call?" he questions.

"We weren't given that information specifically, but it shouldn't be hard to get. There couldn't have been more than a handful of people involved."

A spark lights his eyes at my words. God, I love this man. One of the things I love most about finally being involved with Harm is that, more often than not, we're on the same wavelength these days. It's almost like we've gone back to being the best friends of those first few years, when we could practically read the other's mind. It's wonderful to be in sync with each other again, and from the way his whole face perks up, it's obvious he's connected the dots once again.

Intelligence is such a turn-on.

"If you're right, there would've had to have been a second transmission back to the Middle East after Dunston's call came through. When we get the list of involved ZNN personnel, let's take a look at the phone records and emails that went out after the call but before the attack," he says.

"And cell phone records." _They're the most important._ I nod to myself.

"Personal cell phone records will be a little more difficult, but I think we can make a case for getting a subpoena," Harm says thoughtfully, rising with a newfound air of urgency.

Starting to rise as well, I hesitate at the sound of the conference room door opening.

"Am I interrupting?" Bud asks, stepping into the room.

"No, we were just wrapping up." With an absent gesture as he pulls together the paperwork that's strewn about the table, Harm beckons for Bud to join us. "If you've got the time, we could use your help with getting some information from ZNN regarding the Dunston trial."

"I'm sorry, Commander, but I don't." Bud shakes his head. "I just came in to tell you that Harriet and I are planning a small get-together Thursday night. We'd love for you both to join us."

"What's the occasion?" I ask, abruptly noting Bud's barely contained excitement and ignoring the unexpected wave of apprehension that washes through me at the sight.

A proud grin splits across the younger officer's features. "I've been assigned to the _Seahawk_ as the new shipboard judge advocate. My orders came through this morning."

My heart stops.

_Bud…carrier JAG aboard the _USS Seahawk_…_

A haze of black clouds my peripheral vision as the room suddenly closes in around me, the lead ball of unadulterated fear dropping heavily in my stomach. From a world away I hear Harm offer his congratulations, and Bud's explanation about how that's why he can't help with the Dunston investigation because he'll be too busy transitioning off his current workload… but the words don't register. My mind is too absorbed by the horrific memories of Bud's ashen, lifeless body in sickbay aboard the _Guadalcanal_.

He'd been at the school groundbreaking dedication in Afghanistan to represent the US Forces and the Judge Advocate General Corps. He'd gone a whole man, healthy and happy.

He'd come back broken, and fighting for his life.

_If he goes to the _Seahawk_, he's going to step on that landmine._

The fear in my veins overwhelms all rationality. "NO!!! You _CAN'T_ go!"

My involuntary exclamation interrupts their conversation. Turning, both Harm and Bud look at me like I've just sprouted two heads, but I don't care. Bud _cannot_ get on that transport. If he goes out to the _Seahawk_, his life will be in mortal jeopardy. I can't let him take that risk.

"Mac—"

"No, you don't understand, Harm." I shake my head adamantly. Hearing my voice tremble with emotion, I force myself to take a deep breath, struggling to regain some modicum of control. My next words are slightly calmer. "Bud, you can't take the assignment. Trust me on this. It's not worth the price."

Harm looks at me quizzically.

"Mac, you had to know that one of us was going to get transferred sooner or later. We've all been at headquarters longer than most," he reminds me.

Why does Harm's ability to follow my lead seem to fail at the most inopportune moments? He obviously doesn't get it now… but then, how could he? Yeah, losing Bud in the short term while he's aboard the _Seahawk_ would be a hardship, but I'm more worried that we'll end up losing him forever. Oh God, how can I make them understand the consequences? But before I'm even able to formulate a coherent argument, Bud is taking a step towards me.

"It's a great career opportunity, ma'am. I'm going to need the field experience if I want to make lieutenant commander."

Bud's logic is sound, no question. But he doesn't know for certain what's going to happen in his future... and I do. Alas, I can't come up with a logical explanation for my pre-cognizance of the situation. If I could, he'd be the first to know. In a heartbeat.

"Bud, there's got to be something I can say that will change your mind." My tone is insistent, but deep down I realize that he's not convinced.

My fears are confirmed by his next words: "With all due respect, ma'am, the orders have already been cut." There's a hint of sympathy in Bud's eyes as he holds his ground.

_I'm holding the key to Bud's life in my hands, and right now he's rendering me helpless to stop the inevitable. What if he dies?_

The world begins to spin crazily as the roaring in my ears continues to escalate. Dragging in a laborious breath, I struggle against an unexpected wave of nausea. The weight on my conscience is too much to bear.

"Mac?" From somewhere deep within I register the concern etching Harm's features, but it's too late. I can feel the bile rising in my throat.

"Excuse me," I groan with a quick shake of my head, slapping my hand over my mouth as I make a mad dash for the door.

The next few minutes pass by in a blur, which, all considering, is probably just as well since most of them are spent praying to the porcelain goddess in the third floor ladies' restroom. At long last the heaves finally subside. Pulling myself up off of the cold, white bathroom tiles, I flush the toilet and open the stall door. To my surprise, Harriet is standing quietly to one side of the sinks. I guess I was so preoccupied that I didn't hear her come in.

"Commander Rabb asked me to check on you," she explains, stepping forward with a compassionate smile and a little bottle filled with bright blue liquid. "I brought mouthwash."

"Thanks."

Turning on the faucet, I dip my hands under the cool stream of water, splashing it along my face and throat before scooping up a palmful to rinse out my mouth. When I've dried myself off with a paper towel, Harriet hands me the Listerine. The cool mint flavor doesn't quite get rid of the metallic aftertaste but it's better than nothing.

"Is everything all right, ma'am?" she finally asks.

"Not really," I admit with a sigh, thinking about how Bud has chosen this particular moment to flatly reject my well-meaning advice. Then it hits me – between the two of them, which one tends to wear the proverbial pants in the Roberts' household? "Harriet, you can't let Bud take the assignment. You've got to talk him out of it. His life's at stake."

"So are the lives of everyone who's currently deployed," she says, her voice soothing with a placating sense of calm. "He'll be stationed with over five-thousand other crew members. We both know the risks, ma'am."

I shake my head, briefly closing my eyes. "I'm not worried about his safety on the carrier. Chances are good that at some point he'll be sent in-country. What then?" I counter.

To my frustration, Harriet Sims proves to be as stubborn as her husband. "I appreciate your concern, but Bud and I have already talked about this. He needs the field experience, and serving aboard a carrier is one of the best possible ways. Plenty of servicemen spend time in-country without getting hurt."

_And I know for a fact that he's one of the few who _will_ get hurt._"Harriet—"

"Ma'am, with all due respect," she interjects firmly, "Bud's made his choice and the orders have been cut."

"But don't you get a say?" There's a plaintive note in my words; I can't help it.

She shakes her head and gives a small, mollifying smile as she gestures for me to exit the bathroom first. "I can voice my opinion, but in the end it's not my decision to make."

The hell of it is, I know she's right. Trying to accept this momentary defeat as gracefully as I can, I pass her and head on out into the hallway, retreating back into thought. Somehow I've got to convince Bud directly of the danger he'll be in if he takes the billet. The emotional plea in the conference room obviously didn't have an impact, other than making me lose my lunch. And since Harriet has turned out to be a dead-end as well, I guess this means I need to find a different way to approach Bud, appeal to his sense of self-preservation. I've got to do _something_, otherwise I'll never be able to live with myself. The question is… what can I do to change his mind?


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: By the time you finish reading this chapter, you will undoubtedly have figured out that at one point in time I was mildly obsessed with another TV show besides JAG… )

The characters, storylines – pretty much anything related to the other series – belong to Paramount pictures, and are only referred to here to further the JAG storyline. I am not benefiting from their use in any way other than it was fun to revisit some old friends for a short while.

**Chapter 11**

Wednesday  
March 27, 2002  
1215 ZULU (0715 local)  
JAG Headquarters  
Falls Church, Virginia

For the last fifteen hours I've been trying desperately to come up with some kind of argument that will make sense to Bud, something I can say that will make him see the wisdom of my words and ask the admiral to rescind his pending _Seahawk_ orders. Even at dinner last night, when Harm tried to coax it out of me, I couldn't talk. I just sat there at the table not tasting my meal and begging off early because I still didn't feel very well. This morning so far I've spent anxiously in my office, waiting for Bud and Harriet to arrive. I still don't know exactly _what_ I'm going to say, but hopefully the words will flow when I finally have the chance to speak with Bud alone.

While waiting, I've been keeping myself busy reviewing the details of another case file that was sitting on my desk, but even after perusing the folder's contents for the better part of an hour I still wouldn't be able to name the defendant, the charge or the circumstances surrounding the case if anyone were to wander into my office and ask. I'm just about to return to reading the same page for the millionth time when I at last hear the echoes of Harriet's pert "Good morning!" to Petty Officer Robson, who sits just across from Bud's office at the entrance to the bullpen. In a flash I'm heading in the direction of Bud's door. Gathering all the Marine Corps bearing I can muster, I square my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and give a good and hearty knock on the jamb.

"Good morning, Colonel." Bud grins warmly as he looks up and sees me standing in his doorway. "How are you? Are you feeling any better today?"

"Yeah, I'm better now. Thanks for asking." Wringing my hands in front of me for a moment, I give an uncertain glance around before returning my attention to Bud. "Listen, uh, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure. Please, come in." There's a slight expression of perplexity in Bud's eyes as he gestures for me to take one of the chairs in front of his desk, as though he knows exactly what I'd like to talk about but can't quite believe I'm daring to broach the subject yet again. Truth be told, I'd probably think the same thing if I were in his shoes.

"About yesterday." I begin hesitantly, looking briefly down at my hands. "I want to apologize for running out on you. Believe it or not, I _do_ know the post aboard the _Seahawk_ is a great opportunity, and what it would mean to your career. No one deserves the position more."

"Thank you, ma'am." He nods in acceptance, although I can see that he's wondering what else I have to say, his brow furrowing in an unspoken, _But?_

Taking a deep breath, I continue forward. "Something's going to happen. I can't explain how I know, exactly, but you can't take the assignment because something's going to happen to you."

"You had a vision about me?" he asks. "Like the one you had about Chloe, or how you found the commander when his plane went down last spring?"

"Exactly!" My heart jumps and I nod eagerly, seizing the explanation he's just unwittingly handed me. "Bud, you're going to—"

He cuts me off with an emphatic, "No, don't tell me!" drowning out the rest of my words. To my shock, he rises from his chair, eyes widening as he pats the air in front of him with his hand, motioning for me to be quiet. "No, no, no… I don't want to know!"

"What do you mean, you don't want to know?" I ask incredulously. If someone had told me that I was going to go back in time, I sure as hell would have wanted some kind of warning! "Bud, I—"

"I'm serious, ma'am," he repeats forcefully, pausing for a moment until he sees that I'm listening. "I appreciate your trying to tell me, but I really, _really_ don't want to know."

"How can you say that?" A stealthy sense of desperation settles in my chest, undermining my determination to stay calm. "Bud, are you sure you don't want to know what your future holds?"

His sigh echoes loudly through the small office. "Ma'am, knowing what happens in the future is a big deal. What if my destiny hinges entirely on whatever it is you've seen? What if I make a choice based on what you tell me, and it turns out to be the wrong decision? There are all sorts of consequences at stake, repercussions that I don't want to even _begin_ to contemplate."

Moving to shuffle through the stack of folders on his desk, his manner contains an element of restrained anxiety. "Whenever someone knows about the future, it automatically taints his actions and compromises the time stream. It doesn't matter if he's got good intentions about keeping the timeline true; he's already pre-disposed to start questioning everything and second-guessing himself. It's a commonly known fact of temporal physics. What if the future you've seen for me is the correct one? What if I'm _supposed_ to go out to the _Seahawk_? If I don't go, then what if there's an alternate timeline created, an alternate universe… an alternate JAG universe that's populated by… people who look like us, but who aren't _really_ us? And then there's the possibility that the real universe could get lost forever, all because at one point in time I made the wrong choice. All because I was afraid of something that you saw happen to me and it caused a warp in the established space-time continuum."

With that, he looks back up at me, perfectly serious. "Ma'am, if something were to happen to the entire universe because I'd consciously tried to change my destiny, I couldn't live with myself."

"What are you talking about, Bud?" My head is spinning from his sudden monologue.

"The potential effects of pre-cognizance on the space-time continuum," he explains again, grabbing his briefcase from beside his desk.

I don't believe this. "You're talking _Star Wars?_"

He flashes me a patient-but-sympathetic look, the kind an adult gives to a child when making a common and easily avoidable mistake.

"_Star Trek_, ma'am."

Gently easing a small stack of folders into his attaché case, he reaches for a pen and elaborates, speaking so quickly that it takes a moment for my brain to catch up:

"There were a lot of storylines that explored the consequences of interfering with the space-time continuum. In the original series, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock had to fix history when Doctor McCoy inadvertently damaged the 'original' timeline. _The Next Generation_ episodes 'Redemption' and 'Unification' similarly dealt with repercussions from Tasha Yar's decision to go back in time with the Enterprise C in 'Yesterday's Enterprise', after she realized _she'd_ died in the 'original' timeline. And in the fifth season's cliffhanger, the Enterprise-D crew went back in time to 19th century San Francisco, where Data encountered all sorts of challenges trying not to contaminate the timeline after he got separated from everyone else. And Peter David wrote a great book called _Imzadi_ in which Commander Riker jumps from the future to the past and back again just to change a single moment in his history with Counselor Troi. I think at one point he even mentions a temporal Prime Directive—"

"Bud!" My head is spinning – I should have known better than to ignite his enthusiasm for all things science fiction. When he finally stops, I lower my voice a notch. "I get the picture."

That at least earns me a sheepish smile. Some things never change, I guess. Silence looms awkwardly between us for an interminable second.

At long last Bud speaks, picking up his briefcase. "I _do_ appreciate your wanting to warn me, ma'am, but I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment with Judge Morris at oh-seven-thirty. I really can't be late."

I give a faint nod, watching blankly as he gives me one last sympathetic glance before rounding his desk and heading past me out the door. Outside in the bullpen I can hear the rest of the office beginning to awaken, people coming in and greeting each other warmly, heading off to the coffee room together for their morning jolt of caffeine. I've never felt so impotent in my life, knowing that I can make a difference in a close friend's future and yet having my hands tied by that same friend's stubbornness to hear me out!

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment…_

Ignoring the nagging reminder that the fortune cookie's message referred specifically to MY life, and not necessarily my friends' lives, it occurs to me as I sit in Bud's otherwise empty office that maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Bud's words from just a few minutes before overlap and meld with the phrase that's been so paramount in my life for the last six months, ever since I woke up that fateful morning and began reliving my past.

_…just to change a single moment in his history…_

With a start, a new idea hits me. What if I'm thinking too big? What if, instead of trying to convince Bud to radically change his future, I were to plant the seed in his mind so that when the time comes he makes one _small_ decision that effects the same outcome but at a fraction of the cost? I don't have to prevent him necessarily from going out to the _Seahawk_; I just have to make sure that he never stands on that road in Afghanistan! Even if he does go in-country, if Bud's not on that road when the young boy navigates that minefield then he won't step into harm's way…

A slow grin spreads across my face as I realize how I can still warn Bud without compromising his beliefs about knowing the future. Clenching my hand into an excited fist, I give the chair arm a brief-but-firm anticipatory thump before pushing out of the chair and heading back to my own office.

* * *

Thursday  
March 28, 2002  
0028 ZULU (1928 local)  
Roberts' Residence  
Rosslyn, Virginia

The next evening I'm once again marveling at Harriet's ability to pull off the near-impossible when it comes to entertaining: in just a few days, she's not only organized a going-away party for her husband but has managed to bring in a sense of style and élan that could rival any upper crust party in the metro Washington area. Out of the corner of my eye I spot her across the room making the rounds with a platter of fancy finger food, offering some to the admiral before moving on to another clump of guests. Between the hors d'oeuvres and the "Good Luck Bud" cake – which reminds me, I must ask where she had it made because it really does look like an aircraft carrier – Harriet has seriously outdone herself this time.

While Harm and I haven't made our relationship officially known to our colleagues yet, we came together tonight and have been at each other's sides for most of the evening. I take a large measure of comfort just knowing that he's nearby; even though I've got a game plan now as far as Bud's fate is concerned, and I've calmed down considerably since our discussion yesterday morning, there's still a part of me that craves the tangible presence of my significant other. Fortunately our professional relationship has grown close enough over the years that we can stand mere inches from one another and not arouse suspicion among the rest of the office staff. I have enough on my mind tonight without having to worry about how to deflect the rumor mill's incessant grist.

For the last few days I've been a little off-kilter, what with Bud's impending transfer and all, but tonight I'm finally feeling like myself again. Mostly I'm dressed up because when off-duty I like wearing clothes significantly more feminine than my normal class-A uniform, but I've admittedly got an ulterior motive this evening, namely plans to seduce a certain tall dark and droolworthy fellow JAG attorney after the party's over. Allowing myself one more moment of distraction – Harm's standing to my right and looking way too delicious for his own good in those civilian clothes – I briefly entertain the thought of getting him _out_ of that black sport coat and pinstriped shirt before giving myself a mental shake. Clearing from my mind the image of buttons popping off in every which direction, I refocus on the conversation at hand.

As would be expected at a going-away party, the three of us – me, Harm and the guest of honor – have been talking about Bud's new assignment and what may be in store for him over the course of his deployment. Although I've never been a shipboard JAG, nor technically has Harm, it seems from just a few minutes' discussion that Bud's impression of his new post is somewhat… inflated. Sure, he'll be involved in the battle group's decisions around rules of engagement while the _Seahawk_ is in the Arabian Sea, but other than that I seriously doubt if Bud'll be doing much more than handling petty grievances, wills, and other routine legal paperwork. Apparently Harm is thinking the same thing as I feel him chuckle beside me.

"What sort of cases are you expecting, Bud?" I ask, poker face firmly in place. Just then, the admiral joins us. Despite the fact that our CO is also wearing civvies and is sporting a beer in one hand, I sincerely hope Bud doesn't put his foot in his mouth. On the bright side, though, at least tonight his clothes are spotless and he's wearing a tie.

"Well, 'hot button' issues, ma'am." There's an air of naïve sincerity in his face that underscores just how serious he is. "Approving tactical strikes on enemy targets, working with allied legal officers on international treaties…"

Granted, yes, he'll be doing all that… but the other ninety-five percent of his time he'll be dutifully earning his reputation among the crew as the resident legal weenie.

"Really?" Harm questions, sneaking a glance my way.

"Oh yes, sir. Perhaps even trying foreign terrorists in military tribunals," Bud nods enthusiastically. Hmn, on second thought, maybe he's not so far off base with his ideas about the carrier JAG spot after all – the name Mustafah Atef comes to mind.

Standing there absorbing the interchange thus far, the admiral takes the opportunity to interject a wry, "Sounds exciting, Lieutenant."

"Well, sir, compared to the mundane, day-to-day work of JAG…"

Bud trails off as he realizes what he's just said, in effect having told THE Judge Advocate General that the things we do at the Falls Church Headquarters don't rate much above 'boring' on the naval law excite-o-meter. Harm and I both fight the urge to laugh at the deer-in-headlights look that crosses his face.

"Not that what we do here isn't important…" he retracts hurriedly.

Thankfully the admiral appears to share our amusement at Bud's inopportune comment, because in spite of his usual stoicism there's a detectable undercurrent of laughter in his voice. "Glad to hear you say that."

"It's just that, you know," Bud stammers, "international law is—"

"A hotter button." The admiral's expression is characteristically unreadable. There's an element of humor in his delivery, however, that makes me realize for the millionth time just how much I'd missed seeing this side of our CO. Once again I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to go back into my past and make changes to my future. Maybe if I'm able to figure out what went wrong with the admiral, I can fix that too.

Bud doesn't seem to know quite how to respond to the admiral's comment, but it doesn't matter. A moment later the admiral makes his excuses and heads off to avail himself of Harriet's tray of pseudo-sushi and mini-wieners.

"I'm sure you'll be involved in other things besides international law, Bud." I try to reassure him after the admiral is out of hearing range. "After all, you'll be serving as the dedicated legal representative for over five thousand crew members. That's a definite increase in responsibility. It'll look great on your service record."

"Don't worry, Bud. It won't all be paper-pushing," Harm adds. "When I was deployed, the shipboard JAG spent a fair amount of time in-country, especially when I was stationed on the _Henry_." That Harm fails to mention the stacks of files he'd been asked by his peers to review while aboard the _USS Patrick Henry_ – when he wasn't even the carrier's assigned JAG – doesn't escape my notice, but I bite my tongue.

"Doing what, sir?"

I try not to mentally cringe at the zeal with which Bud's face has just lit up, reminding myself that his going in-country isn't an issue so long as he doesn't attend that school dedication.

"Depends on what's needed. Generally investigative work for cases involving members of the crew, but you may also find yourself doing non-legal work. Having a PR background will come in handy. We need a positive naval presence in the Middle East now more than ever."

"That's right, Bud. You'll probably be asked to go in-country as the navy's representative," I add with a smile, suddenly spotting an opening. Leaning forward slightly, I cup my mug carefully in both hands and lower my voice, adding, "Just do me a favor and don't go to any groundbreaking ceremonies. Okay?"

To my right, Harm's brow furrows slightly. He obviously doesn't get my cryptic comment, but that's okay – it's not meant for him. What's important is that Bud understands my meaning.

For a moment I'm not sure that he does, because he automatically asks, "Groundbreaking ceremonies, ma'am?"

_C'mon, Bud. Work with me here._ I nod, my gaze locked with his, breath locked tight in my lungs.

A split second later I can see the lightbulb blink on. Bud's face instantly shifts from confusion to comprehension, and finally, to acceptance. "Groundbreaking ceremonies. Got it, ma'am. No groundbreaking ceremonies."

_Message sent and received._

The sudden sense of relief that washes through me is powerful. Exhaling as I straighten up, I feel as though a tremendous weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My smile is almost involuntary as I say, "I think I'm going to go get some more tea. Can I get either of you something?"

Bud shakes his head ruefully. "You go on ahead. I should mingle before Harriet accuses me of ignoring the other guests."

"Understandable." Harm grins, shifting his drink to one hand so he can place the other at the small of my back. The heat from his palm sears my skin through the thin silk fabric of my blouse as he gently steers me in the direction of the kitchen. When we get to the threshold leading into the other room, he leans close and murmurs, "Groundbreaking ceremonies, Mac?"

A delectable shiver runs down my spine at the feel of his breath against my ear. For the first time in days, I find myself tensing up from physical arousal, rather than emotional stress. Only Harm has ever been able to make me go from zero to sixty with minimal physical contact. Turning slightly so that I can look up into his eyes, I give a canned explanation. "Inside joke."

"Oh…" He nods knowingly.

"Tell you what," I whisper softly, giving what I hope comes across as a secretive smile as I reach up and play seductively with his lapel. From this angle I can see the wonderful hue of his irises, blue with little green flecks in them. "How about we give ourselves twenty minutes to have some cake and make our goodbyes, then meet down by the car. I'm in the mood to see if we can't make a few groundbreaking earthquakes of our own. What do you say, sailor? Want to see who can make it out of here first?"

For a heart-stopping moment I think he's going to close the gap and kiss me, but thankfully we've both got enough self-control to remember that we're still in public. Besides, even though it's a win-win situation, I've just thrown a gauntlet at his feet… and Harm's never one to back down from a challenge.

"You're on, Marine," he agrees with a growl, his thoughtful countenance breaking into what over the years I've come to think of as his dark and dangerous flyboy grin. "Let the games begin."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: FYI, the delay in getting this posted was due to technical difficulties with the website -- I've been trying to post this on and off for the last 36 hours. Better late than never, I guess! )

**Chapter 12**

Wednesday  
April 30, 2002  
0008 ZULU (1908 local)  
North of Union Station  
Washington, D.C

It's amazing how quickly time flies when you're preoccupied with other things. This morning, I admit to having been caught totally unawares when Admiral Chegwidden first came into the conference room and announced that the president had convened the first military tribunal in almost fifty years.

I hadn't totally forgotten about Mustafah Atef, of course – after all, it was just over a month ago when Bud had mentioned military tribunals at his going-away party – but somehow I simply hadn't expected it to come quite so soon on the heels of Bud's deployment. Things played out just as I remembered. The admiral, hesitating to order one of his senior staff to defend the terrorist at the tribunal, gave each of us the opportunity to volunteer for the role before eventually deciding to do the job himself. Harm and I were ultimately assigned prosecutorial duties while Sturgis offered to sit second chair to the admiral as Atef's defense counsel.

The only thing I didn't remember from my previous life was Singer's little tête-à-tête with Sturgis about sitting second chair to the admiral. That woman always had an angle. Still, no one deserves to be murdered in cold-blood and left for dead in the frosty weather of February in Washington. I actually _did_ try warning her, when the admiral recently assigned me to sit second chair to her first (what a nightmare _that_ turned out to be, even the second time around!). During one of our late-evening "strategizing" sessions – Singer would present her line of attack, I'd disagree, and she'd go with her idea anyway – I casually cautioned her against pursuing any kind of relationship with Commander Lindsey.

"Lindsey who?" was her response, accompanied by her characteristically smarmy arch-eyebrowed 'I'm-faking-innocence-but-know-exactly-what-you're-talking-about' expression.

Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but it's no wonder she met such an unseemly end.

My mind and thoughts abruptly return to the moment at hand: the tribunal. As before, after morning staff call Harm and I agreed to meet tonight to strategize over dinner and then carpool out to Andrews AFB for our transport to the _USS Seahawk_, where the tribunal is to be convened. I'd suggested carryout at my place, but he'd suggested instead that I come to his place so that he could cook. Why he would want to cook when we have to turn right around and leave is beyond me, but I agreed since Harm is a better cook than the chef at the Italian joint near my apartment, in spite of all his protests. Besides, I've always enjoyed spending time alone with Harm at his place; knowing in advance that he's going to be serving up his famous grilled salmon is just a bonus.

True to form, he's been playing the part of the gentleman since I walked in the door tonight: taking my bags, hanging up my coat, filling up my plate with a delicious looking salad and the salmon steak, which I'm pleased to see is done to perfection. One thing I can't get over, though, is how much effort he'd put into this dinner, both in my previous life as well as this one. Now, as we sit down at the table, part of me is questioning once again why he would go to the trouble of lighting candles, keeping fresh flowers on the table and playing romantic music in the background when we're supposed to be 'working'. But the other part of me, the feminine part that relishes the opportunities we get to spend together as a couple, is enjoying his efforts tremendously. I can't believe that I'd paid so little attention to the implications the first time around! Was I really so engrossed by the prospects of the tribunal that I'd missed all the obvious romantic overtures? At least this time there's no question about how he feels, thank goodness; I can sit back and enjoy the rosy candlelight with pleasure.

For a few moments we go back and forth, like we did before, discussing the tactics that the admiral and Sturgis are likely to pursue. Every now and again I find myself startled by how almost everything Harm and I have talked about, every bit of dialogue, spills out nearly exactly the same as it did when we last had this discussion years ago. It's all the same, right down to Harm being Harm and disagreeing with me. I think it's in his genetic programming… not that I would have it any other way. It keeps me on my toes.

"Harm, there hasn't been a military tribunal convened since World War II," I point out, reaching for my fork as we sit down to dinner. "The tricky part about having one in this day and age is that no one's ever determined whether the United States has the authority to put foreign nationals on trial for terrorist activities. Do we have the jurisdiction to try a man who was captured by US forces well outside of our country's borders? That's got to be their opening salvo."

"The admiral's not going to tell the judges that they've come all that way for nothing," Harm counters as he unfolds his napkin. "He'd lose, and he knows it."

"I think we should prepare for the possibility anyway."

"Mac, there's no way the admiral would use that argument as grounds for dismissal. I'm going to pass on the jurisdictional line of attack," he persists. "My responsibility."

_You're going to pass on…_ I can't help but chuckle at his audacity… and the fact that this is turning into a giant case of déjà vu. "Um, excuse me, but… who made you first chair?"

His eyes widen ever so slightly as he realizes that I'm disputing his authority. What's more, he knows I've got a point because he comes back with an argument that sounds exceedingly adolescent coming from a highly renowned naval litigator: "The admiral mentioned my name first."

It doesn't escape my attention that he's gesturing to himself with a fully loaded fork. I wonder if he knows how close he is to either wearing his dinner or dropping that forkful of salad down the vee of his polo shirt.

"So?" I challenge with a flirtatious grin, enjoying seeing him squirm. If anything, I'm enjoying myself even more than I did in my previous life.

He looks at me for a long moment, as though contemplating the alternatives, before giving a little shrug. "All right, all right. I tell you what. We'll flip for it," he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans.

"Okay." _This whole flip-a-coin idea has definite possibilities,_ I think.

"You call it."

A second later Harm flips the quarter into the air, both of us watching expectantly as it spins upwards in the darkness, hanging for a moment above our heads. Then, as it begins its downward fall, I make my choice. Last time we did this toss I chose heads – and lost – so this time I'm going to go with…

"Tails." After all, there has to be some advantage to knowing the future. I can't believe the outcome of the trial will be any different if I'm sitting first chair instead of Harm, but maybe this way I can at least save Bud the embarrassment of agreeing I should be the one to go interrogate the prisoners in-country. Harm really did give him such a hard time over that… well, according to what Jennifer eventually told me after the fact.

The coin lands on the floor between us, hitting the wood planks with a barely audible _thump_. Almost immediately we're both kneeling down to see the results of the toss. And once again we both choose to ignore one of the most elementary laws of physics until it's too late – two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time – because the next thing I know, I feel a sharp _bonk_ where our heads collide. If we ever do this again, I'm going to have to find a way to get close without us crashing into one another.

"Oww." I wince, lifting a hand to my temple. Beside me, I briefly see Harm doing the same.

"I'm sorry." His face fills my vision as his hand moves to my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Ah, yeah, but…" Dropping my eyes to the coin, I can't help but feel a surge of surprise and disappointment at seeing George Washington instead of a bald eagle. "…I'm second chair." Damn.

That earns me a good-natured grin. "Ha ha. I'll be gentle."

"Don't be gentle, be good." After all, heaven forbid if we should lose and a known Al Qaeda leader walks away scot-free….

Then the secondary meaning of what I've just said hits home. Again. And apparently Harm heard it as well, because his gaze darkens ever so slightly as it drops briefly to my lips.

"Oh, don't worry," he says, voice lowering into that oh-so-sexy drawl. "I'm _always_ good."

Luckily for me, I know that's not just his naval aviator ego talking… since crossing the line between friends and lovers, I've gotten a lot of firsthand experience in learning just how good he truly is. Considering how much time we've been spending together (outside of the bedroom notwithstanding, of course), it's a wonder that I'm not pregnant yet. Despite our enthusiasm and simultaneous lack of birth control, however, every month I still seem to get my period right on schedule. Sometimes I still find myself worrying about my chances of conceiving, whether that eighty to eighty-five percent threshold Dr Marge gave me in November has already started to fall. But then I shove my fears under the rug and tell myself that it just gives us more incentive to practice…

Speaking of 'practicing,' there's no reason why we have to rush through dinner, especially since we don't have to be at Andrews for another three hours. It's always fun to get him a little riled up. Besides, if memory serves, the transport is going to be running behind schedule anyway. And weren't we aboard the _Seahawk_ for nearly a week the last time around? Might as well take advantage of this opportunity while I can…

I flash a saucy smile.

"Oh, really?" Arching one eyebrow, I lean forward slightly, all the while maintaining direct eye contact. The reflection of flickering candlelight in his gaze is deliciously sensual, causing tiny sparks to ignite within me. My own voice drops. "Are you sure about that, Commander?"

"Are you questioning my abilities, _Colonel_?" One corner of that beautiful mouth turns up at the entendre.

It takes every ounce of my willpower fight off the urge to close the distance and kiss that smirk off his face.

"Not in so many words," I murmur cheekily.

He moves a little closer, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath on my face. There's a passionate fire in his eyes now that doesn't have anything to do with the candles on the table. "So you _are_ questioning my… abilities."

"I wouldn't go right to _questioning_ them."

The coin between us momentarily forgotten, his gaze stays locked on mine as he slides his hand down my right arm to my wrist, lifting my hand to his lips. "Oh yeah?" he whispers softly against the skin of my palm. A shiver works its way up my arm, goosebumps rising at the feel of his lips as they move to the underside of my wrist. "Then what _would_ you say?"

"I…"

My reply trails off as his mouth moves lightly along my arm, lingering delicately in the crook of my elbow. If there's one thing I've learned over the last few months, it's that his ministrations have an uncanny way of robbing me of my ability to form a coherent thought. Unfortunately, Harm knows this as well as I do.

"Yeah," he murmurs as he reaches the hem of my sleeve, his other hand snaking stealthily around my waist. "That's what I thought."

With an internal shake, it's with an embarrassing amount of difficulty that I order my mind to focus. "I wasn't questioning them," I rasp out, trying to keep a semblance of control while Harm's lips move upwards and start going to work on my right ear lobe. Oh boy, and I thought his tongue on the inside of my arm felt good…

It takes a lot of willpower, but I force my eyes back open and my gaze upwards. Maybe if I concentrate on the wooden beams crossing the ceiling, I can keep myself from going down in the textbooks as the first human case of spontaneous combustion.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah… "I was merely wondering if you shouldn't make sure your… _skills_… are up to par before you're entrusted with such a weighty responsibility." I smile impishly. With my eyes trained upwards, my hands reach out blindly for his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

He chuckles, a throaty rumble against the side of my neck. "I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you."

Who said anything about being worried?


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Tuesday  
May 21, 2002  
0845 ZULU (1245 local)  
_USS Seahawk_  
North Arabian Sea

Good, bad or otherwise, the tribunal's panel of judges once again found Mustafah Atef, a.k.a. Mohan Des, guilty as charged and sentenced him to death.

And as before, Atef bled himself to death with the aid of a pilfered pen before the CIA could interrogate him.

The frustrating part is that this time around I actually _warned_ Clayton Webb about Atef's impending suicide! But obviously my directive – 'Whatever you do, make sure he doesn't take a pen off the desk in the courtroom!' – went unheeded because shortly thereafter I was summoned to the brig, where the prisoner lay dead over a massive puddle of blood. Of course, after the body was discovered Webb approached me with what I suppose he considered to be an apology. Unfortunately, it came off less as, 'I'm sorry for not listening to you,' and more as, 'Why couldn't you have been more specific and said a _ballpoint_ pen?'

Had Webb always been that patronizing and I'd just failed to notice? Or did our interactions over the years, culminating with the horrors of Paraguay, simply color my perceptions of him to the point where I didn't recognize the truth of his personality? How could I ever have wasted a year on such a man?

_Thank God it doesn't matter any more,_ I think to myself, smiling softly as I struggle to close the zipper on my sea bag. _Somehow I've been given a second chance to _fix_ everything that's gone wrong these past few years. I'm not about to let that chance slip away._

There's really been only one other thing I took it upon myself to change: Bud and Harriet's house, or more specifically, getting Harriet on the phone and making her tell Bud about their new abode (and making him tell her about his new legal man). Although I'd mentioned to Harm that he should follow-up with Harriet about telling Bud _before_ closing the deal, things proceeded as they had previously... Mr. Roberts was soon the proud owner of a classic white two-story without even knowing that he held the deed. And of course he'd in turn failed yet again to tell Harriet about having the young and pretty Petty Officer Jennifer Coates as his new legal man aboard the _Seahawk_. I figured it would be better for all involved if they got it out into the open and deal with it ASAP. So with a little interference on my part, I was at least able to 'save' Lieutenant Singer the satisfaction of causing friction between Bud and Harriet, and I spared the rest of us a massive headache in the bargain.

With that said, there are some things I haven't had to worry about fixing at all. With very few exceptions, mostly regarding my relationship with Harm, most everything that's happened in the last month or so has happened more or less as I remembered... the tribunal... Captain Sebring's trial and subsequent acquittal... the adventures Harm and I had in the Afghan desert after the near-miss with the goat...

Okay, I admit, I tried to avoid the goat altogether, but my reflexes weren't quite as good as I'd hoped. Fortunately the ammo-box-on-the-Soviet-butterfly-mine trick worked as well the second time around as it did the first.

Still, with those three admitted exceptions, things haven't been much different. Even Harm's real-life game of Missile X once again turned out successfully, averting nuclear disaster and ending a heart-stopping crisis in its tracks. The last time we did this, I'd still been a little wary of his flying due to that minor spill he'd taken into the drink less than a year before. However, this time around lot more time has passed since his swim in the Atlantic – in my mind anyway – and Harm's had ample opportunity to prove himself king of the Tomcat once more. My renewed confidence in his skills as an accomplished aviator helped keep my heart out of my throat as I stood on the bridge of the _Seahawk_ for the second time, watching him speed past with a dirty nuclear missile hot on his six. With Harm, it's just all in a day's work.

His face flashing through my mind, I suddenly realize that I'd better get a move on as he's going to be here any minute and I've been wasting precious time fighting the limited space in my bag. As if right on cue, there's a knock on my stateroom door.

"Who is it?" I call, knowing full well that a certain tall, dark and dreamy naval commander is standing on the other side carrying two sets of the protective gear that we'll be required to wear on the COD... and I'm nowhere near dressed. I guess that's what I get for waiting until the last minute to pack.

"Harm." His muffled reply echoes through the metal door. As much as I might wish otherwise, considering that he's seen me in much less over the course of the last four and a half months, under the present circumstances it would be highly inappropriate for me to answer the door wearing nothing but a bra and panties.

"Uh, just a second!" Abandoning my books in favor of retrieving my pants from their nearby hanger, I quickly move to step into one leg.

"C'mon, Mac," he calls persistently. "What are you doing? Open up."

"I'm packing." In goes the other leg.

"Well open up, let me help."

His tone reminds me of a little boy begging for admission to somewhere he knows he's not supposed to be. With an involuntary smile, I reach for my blouse. "I'm also dressing."

There's a brief pause. "I can help with that, too."

Did I just mentally compare him to a little boy? Because he just grew up in a hurry. If he's resorting to using that suggestive bedroom voice while aboard the carrier – and that was _definitely_ his bedroom voice – it's time for me to nip this in the bud. With one last button to go, I turn around and open the door.

"Got it handled, but I appreciate the offer." I grin. Then, before he has a chance to react, I snatch one of the cranials and a flotation vest out of his outstretched hands, turning back into the room with a deliberately absent, "Thanks."

"How'd you..." He stands there for a second before stepping into the room. Behind him the door remains open, a concession to the propriety that's required between two officers of the opposite sex while aboard a carrier at sea. "Since Sturgis is heloing in from the Watertown, I thought you might like to join me on the flight deck in giving him a hero's welcome."

"Sure." Dropping the gear on the chair beside the bed, I frown down at the two books that for whatever reason are again refusing to simultaneously fit into my bag.

"What's the problem?"

I pick both of them up and look at the spines contemplatively. "I've only got room for one book."

"Can't you fit them both in?"

"No, I'm packed too tight. Only have room for one." I glance up at him curiously. "Can you take the other?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Harm peers over my shoulder. "No, I'm packed as tightly as you are."

"Damn."

A moment later, both paperbacks are plucked from my grasp. "David Baldacci and Tom Clancy, huh?" Harm comments as he examines the covers. Then he frowns at one of the titles. "_The Hunt for Red October_? Don't tell me you've never read it."

"I won't." I grin. To tell the truth, I read it when the movie first premiered in theaters, but years have passed and I admit to forgetting a lot of what happened. A few days ago I impulsively picked it up upon spotting it at the ship's store – knowing that Sturgis would soon be bringing Jack Ryan's underwater escapades to fruition gave me plenty of incentive to re-read the book. Talk about life imitating art!

Grinning back, Harm's gaze once again returns to the novels. "These are both bookmarked halfway through," he notes with surprise.

"So?" My laugh echoes heartily through the room. It's not like he's never heard of multitasking. "Sometimes I read five or six books at once. What's wrong with that?"

"Well nothing, except when you can't fit them in your luggage," he replies, one corner of his mouth turned upward in a smug little smirk.

"Very funny."

Giving him an impertinent smile, I reclaim both books. For a moment I stand there weighing one in each hand, trying to come up with an alternative as the seconds tick away. Finally, I succumb to the inevitable.

I heave a heavy sigh of frustration. "I was trying to avoid this."

"Avoid what?"

Without answering, I open the books where I'd left off reading, laying them one atop the other, and neatly rip them down the middle just as Harm himself had done once-upon-a-time. My inner being cringes at the sight of the shredded pages. As a book lover I hate destroying perfectly re-readable novels, but better that I do the deed to my own property than let Harm do the destroying for me. 

"Don't you think that was a little extreme?" he questions as I turn to stuff the unread halves into the top of my duffel and successfully close the zipper at last.

"You would have done the same thing." _You DID do the same thing,_ I think, slipping quickly into my shoes. "C'mon, let's go." Grabbing the protective gear, I walk past him and out into the corridor. We've got a helo to meet.

Following close on my heels, Harm considerately closes my stateroom door behind himself. His voice is laced, however, with a twinge of disbelief. "But Mac, Sturgis might have room in _his_ bag. You could've at least waited to ask him."

My feet stall, bringing me to a grinding halt when his meaning sinks in. You mean I could have saved myself the trouble of resorting to librocide? With one last sigh, I think about the now ruined books in my bag.

"I guess I just can't win, no matter what I do," I mutter distractedly to myself before stepping over the nearest knee-knocker and heading in the direction of the ladder leading up to the flight deck.

The next thirty-six minutes pass by in a semi-distracted blur, the three of us chatting good-naturedly as Harm and Sturgis tease each other about their respective recent escapades. With all the strife that I vividly recall passing between them in the other timeline, it's refreshing and a little bittersweet to see the two of them back in their old groove, the easy banter of their academy days still holding fast. 

I'm so engrossed in the conversation and laughter that it takes me a while to notice the sense of uneasiness gradually infiltrating my stomach. However, as soon as we part ways with Sturgis outside the temporary officers' quarters, the uneasiness blooms into full-fledged queasiness. It's not like I'm actually going to be sick, but there's a desperate empty ache in my abdomen and a chill running up the back of my neck, a tenseness that I don't remember being present when I was standing around my quarters in my underwear a short time ago. Not having breakfast will do that to a person, I guess. After the excitement of the last few days, it's no wonder that my digestive tract is giving me problems, but I really don't want to endure a fifteen hour commercial flight with an upset stomach.

Fortunately, the officers' mess is nearby. Without saying a word to Harm, I steer us to the right when we'd normally take a left to get to the JAG offices. Thankfully he follows my lead. 

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I ask conversationally.

Glancing behind, I see him shrug out of the corner of my eye.

"As much as could be expected, I guess."

"I bet adrenaline is ten times worse than caffeine." I smile, wondering how long it must have taken him to come down from the high of yesterday's mission. After all, even Harm has never had a dirty nuclear missile try to crawl up his afterburners before.

"That," he says with a nod, "and having to spend three hours in the mission debrief afterwards."

It doesn't take but a few moments before I'm pushing the hatch open and making a beeline for the insulated industrial-sized coffee urns that line one wall of the officers' mess. Harm's close on my six. Beating him to the large silver canister simply labeled 'regular', I reach for one of the sturdy white ceramic mugs sitting neatly off to one side.

The knot that's been forming in my stomach loosens a little as soon as the steaming scent of java hits my senses, but I can still feel the tension coursing through my body, lingering insidiously in the shadows. Two sips in quick succession seems spreads warmth down my body.

"Bud and I missed you at dinner." A handful of off-duty officers is scattered throughout the room. Grabbing a few stray slices of cheese from the nearby buffet, I motion towards an empty table.

Armed with his own cup of coffee, Harm holds out a chair for me, smiling ruefully before taking the adjacent seat. "Captain Johnson was a little peeved that I'd, quote, 'gone off and pulled another of my typically foolhardy stunts,' end quote. But otherwise he seemed pleased."

"Nothing like averting nuclear disaster and saving the lives of the crew to put things in perspective." I grin. "And keeping a missile from slamming into the hull of a multi- billion dollar aircraft carrier didn't hurt your case either, I'm sure."

An easy moment of silence ensues, and we both relax back into our chairs. They're not the most comfortable chairs in the world, standard navy-issue aluminum mess hall fare, but after the insanity of the past few days we're both content to simply _be_, if only for a little while. Even a bed of nails would be welcomed at this point, so long as sitting quietly came as part of the package! And thankfully, as I'd hoped they would, the cheese and coffee have helped somewhat to calm my tangled nerves. Toying with my mug, I let my senses stretch out and unwind, willing myself to be present in the moment.

The relief is fleeting, however, and within seconds I feel the hair at the back of my neck begin standing on end. Tendrils of chill seep up from the chair and crawl up my spine, a fine layer of goosebumps appearing on both arms, and my shoulder muscles tense involuntarily despite the warm humid atmosphere of the room. Setting down my coffee, I reach up and gently massage the knot with my fingertips. Something's not right. I can feel it in my bones.

"You okay?" Seeing the expression of discomfort on my face, Harm leans forward with obvious concern.

For a second I debate whether to say anything. "Yeah, I—"

At that moment, a baby-faced petty officer third class comes briskly into the room. He takes a quick glance around before his gaze alights on us.

"Commander, Colonel." He's at our table in four long strides. "Captain Johnson needs you to report to the flag bridge ASAP."

Harm and I exchange a glance. We weren't expecting to be needed on the bridge again before boarding the COD, which is due to arrive in less than an hour. What's going on? Moving in near-perfect synchronicity, we both hastily push back from the table and rise to our feet.

"Tell the skipper we're on our way," I inform the petty officer, who nods before heading back out of the room. We're not far behind.

My sense of foreboding increases tenfold when Sturgis falls in line just before we reach the entrance to the bridge, straightening his cover as he reaches the door. I do the same, as does Harm.

"Any idea what the captain wants?" Sturgis asks.

"No idea. He summoned you too, huh?" Harm looks perplexed, but not overly concerned.

"Sure did. Fortunately I shower fast."

Holding the door open, Sturgis follows the two of us through the hatch. Directly ahead, Captain Johnson stands looking out through the massive windows over the water stretching out around the ship. From this high above its surface, the Arabian Sea is a slate blue plain that sparkles in the unrelenting heat of the midday sun. The crewmembers currently on duty continue to work at their respective functions, oblivious to the stark beauty before them.

"JAGs reporting as ordered, sir," Harm announces. The three of us come to a crisp salute, waiting for Johnson to acknowledge our presence.

"At ease," he finally orders, keeping his back to us for another moment before turning around. His expression is impassive, and I find myself relaxing a little.

But, as Uncle Matt always used to say, life has a way of knocking you in the teeth when you least expect it. 

Captain Johnson doesn't mince words as he meets each of us in the eye. "Lieutenant Roberts has been injured in Afghanistan. He stepped on a land mine."

_Lieutenant Roberts… stepped on a..._

Oh God, NO!!!

The world around me goes black.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Tuesday  
May 21, 2002  
_USS Seahawk_

The sensation of losing consciousness only lasts a fraction of a second before I'm once again aware of the solid deck underneath my feet, my emotions shutting down as I struggle to stay steady while the world spins crazily around me. I'm not a medic, obviously, but I'm pretty sure I'm in shock.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of fog: Captain Johnson's brief appraisal of the situation with Bud, who'd apparently been returning from an in-country refugee camp when he spotted a young boy standing in a known mine field off to one side of the road. Debating with Harm over which of us should stay as acting JAG and which of us should willfully disobey the admiral's orders. The short helo ride from the _Seahawk_ over to the _Guadalcanal_. Finding Jennifer Coates pacing in a frazzled mess outside the _Guadalcanal_'s surgical sickbay... seeing Bud's ashen face as he lay on the gurney, hovering somewhere between life and death.

Eternity. That's how long it feels like the three of us have been sitting anxiously on these stupid hard wooden benches, waiting for news. We sit, we pace, we sit, and we pace some more. Lost in my own world, only part of my conscious being registers it when Coates rushes off to vomit. The one constant throughout everything is Harm's presence – but even though we've been together this entire time, he seems distant and far away despite the mere inches separating our bodies.

Time has lost its meaning. Seconds tick by on my internal clock, yet each seems to pass more slowly than the one before. Maybe it's because my thoughts are flitting from past to present like a honeybee scampers among flowers, images of the last time we'd sat here weaving themselves into the tapestry of the now. Or perhaps it's because I don't dare hope that Bud makes it out of this alive. His hold on life is much more tenuous than Harm's proven ability to outrun a missile; Bud survived before, but that's no indication that he'll survive again. If he dies…

Coates isn't alone in fighting off nausea. I suddenly feel overwhelmingly helpless, as I realize that my best efforts to use what I've learned from the future weren't enough to save Bud's leg, maybe not even his life. But helplessness isn't the only sensation running amok in my chest; with it comes an eerie sense of déjà vu. Time is repeating itself in more ways than one. A clammy laugh bubbles up within my chest only to lodge somewhere between my ribcage and my throat, reined in by the same muscles that are keeping the rest of my tethered emotions from bursting forth. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the metal deck flooring but not really seeing it.

A raspy female voice in stilted English echoes through my head: _If you want to change your life—_

_But what's the point of knowing the future if nothing changes?_ My own inner voice cuts her off. _Why send me back in time if the things I do don't make any difference?_

Lifting my hand to the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes and give a soft shake of my head. _There must have been_ something _I could have done differently. I could have done more to keep this from happening again. I _SHOULD _have done more…_

This isn't the first time I've foreseen something bad happening to someone I love. It is, however, the first time I've made a conscious effort to prevent my visions – or, in this case, concrete knowledge of fact – from coming to fruition. Taking a deep breath, I try to keep the guilt from overshadowing my concern for Bud.

"You knew, didn't you."

Startled from my own self-pitying thoughts, the world shifts back into focus, and I glance up in the direction of Harm's voice. He's standing a few feet away, leaning up against the vending machine with his arms folded across his chest. When did he move across the room?

His eyes fill with empathy as he repeats the statement; it's not a question. "About Bud. When he received his deployment orders, you knew. You knew about this."

For a moment I can't breathe, the remorse weighing heavily. Why would he want to be with someone who has not only destroyed one life but two, by not listening to herself, by not following her instincts, by not pushing harder for what she knew needed to be done? This isn't the first time someone I love has suffered because I wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough. Why would Harm want to be with someone like me? A heavy fist of shame settles behind my breastbone as the irrational thoughts roam freely through my mind.

Then a ray of lucidity breaks through the turmoil. Harm and I have always been able to read each other better than anyone else; that's one of the reasons why we're so good together. He knows my secrets and I know his – I'm safe with him. He won't judge me for my flaws.

My head dropping slightly as I close my eyes and hold back the tears, I give a slow nod. _Yes, I knew._

He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, but I can feel him watching me from where he stands. The silence feels clammy in this cold, barren space. Minutes pass before I'm compelled to speak. If anyone has a right to know, it's Harm.

"You know, it's funny. I tried to take the keys." The words are harsh in my throat. "I knew that he was drunk, that he shouldn't drive. I tried to take the keys, but he wouldn't listen. And I was too weak to say no, too weak to make him give them to me. Afterwards, I swore I wouldn't let something like that happen again. And Uncle Matt took me up to Red Rock Mesa."

There's a momentary pause. "Eddie?"

"Yeah." Clasping my hands in front of me, a renegade tear escapes from beneath my closed lashes. I feel it slide down my cheek. Images of my two friends merge and separate in my mind: one dead, one fighting for life less than fifty feet away. "It was like that all over again with Bud. History repeating itself. Only this time I really thought I could keep it from happening. Keep him safe."

"Mac, it's not your job to keep him safe. The only person whose life you have any control over is your own. Well," he adds wryly, "your life and mine." 

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

If you want to change your_ life…_

My mind involuntarily tumbles back to that awkward conversation in the ladies room at the Lucky Dream Palace, oh-so-long ago, after first reading the fortune that has since become something of a cross between a mantra and a broken record. _That's how this all started, isn't it?_ I think. The mysterious old lady had said that I'd made a choice. At the time I had no idea what she'd meant, distinctly confused because I hadn't consciously MADE a choice.

The key word there is _consciously_.

_The only person whose life you have any control over is your own. Well, your life and mine._

From the moment I'd cracked open that stale cookie and read the fortune inside, my thoughts had been centered around Harm, around the 'what ifs' that had bogged down our relationship. That's what – or rather _who_ – I'd been thinking of when moments later I'd run off to the ladies room to regain some measure of composure… and had an encounter that had quite literally changed my life.

_I'd chosen Harm._

"Don't blame yourself, Mac."

The gentle touch of his fingers on mine brings me back to the present moment. Opening my eyes to see Harm sitting next to me, our gazes meet. For a moment I'm struck by how handsome he's grown over the years, even more so than he'd been when we'd first met. He's wearier now, a little more tempered, and there are faint lines fanning out from around his eyes. Those eyes are what capture me the most, a stormy blue-green-gray that reflects his compassionate nature along with sharp intelligence. Looking at him now, his face is intense but full of understanding, not recriminations. The flood of love emanating from him is almost too much for me to bear; I glance back down at the floor as his words pierce the silence.

"It's not your fault that Bud got deployed. And it's certainly not your fault that Eddie got behind the wheel. Stop holding yourself accountable for what goes wrong in other people's lives. It's not your fault."

Squeezing my fingers, Harm yet again sets aside his own grief and fears for Bud. Out of the corner of my eye I see him flash me a small, reassuring smile. Having his support doesn't set my mind entirely at ease, of course, but it brings a wonderful and welcome flood of warmth to my soul – the knowledge of being truly and deeply, unconditionally, loved. The tears burn as I fight them back… only this time they're tears of happiness at having finally acknowledged how truly special Harm is, how much he means to me. I squeeze his fingers back. God help me, I love this man.

The intimate moment is broken by the squeak of hinges. The trauma surgeon, Commander Ferraro, stands in the doorway. From the way her hands are folded in front of her holding a surgical mask, and her neutral expression, it's impossible to read her feelings. Did Bud survive, or didn't he? I don't dare ask the question.

"Colonel, Commander." The doctor addresses us, stepping further into the corridor. "Lieutenant Roberts put up one hell of a fight…"

My breath catches.

"…and he's stable." She grins. "I think his prognosis is excellent now."

The relief is so tangible that it's all I can do to keep myself from staggering backwards and sinking to a heap on the floor. I wouldn't have imagined it possible, but somehow the long night of waiting for news of Bud's condition was more stressful the second time around than the first. After keeping quiet throughout this long night of stress the little voice inside my mind reminds me that such a display of emotion isn't befitting of a Marine. Feeling my strength and fortitude returning, I stand a little straighter and smile back. 

"Thank you, Commander."

"Well, it was the lieutenant who did it. He's one hell of a fighter." Smiling one last time, she glances between us with a small acknowledging nod before returning to sickbay.

I watch as the heavy steel hatch closes behind her, the soles of my shoes feeling as though they've been welded to the metal flooring plates. While I couldn't prevent Bud from stepping on that landmine, the doctor's declaration and my own inner instincts are suddenly all telling me that he'll come through this ordeal with flying colors – just as he did before. The weight of responsibility for my friend's future finally lifts from my shoulders.

Just as the realization sinks in, I reach back to grasp Harm's hand… and encounter only empty air.

"Harm?"

Behind me, he has moved back to the bench and is now lowering himself down. My heart goes out to him as he slumps down against the bulkhead, the stoicism draining from his face only to be replaced by tears that refuse to remain unshed any longer. His features crumple in the wake of relief and postponed grief for a friend whose life has just changed irrevocably.

Taking his hand as I sit beside him, something fragile breaks inside my chest as I wrap my free arm around his shoulders. He looks over at me, eyes bright with tears, as though to apologize for his uncharacteristic display of emotion. After all, I've only ever seen him cry once before, in Russia, when I found myself having to relay the devastating news of his father's death. A shiny path courses its way down his cheek as the tears begin to overflow. How large the heart of a man who cries for those he loves, but never for himself? Oh, my love…

I must have said that aloud because he lifts our entwined hands, pressing the back of my knuckles against his lips and holding them there. Gently stroking the back of his hairline, I wait until he returns our hands back into his lap before scooting nearer. I move as close as I can without breaking regulations and drop my head onto his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort into his ear as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

"I love you, Mac," he whispers into the silence.

"I love you," I reply softly, the words catching in my throat as my own eyes start to well with tears.

We sit there for an eternity, just holding each other. Everything will be all right… I can feel it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Tuesday  
June 18, 2002  
2135 ZULU (1635 local)  
National Naval Medical Center  
Bethesda, Maryland

One of the things I hate about going to the doctor is the waiting. First you wait for the nurse to call you back to the exam room. Then you let get measured, have vitals taken like blood pressure, height and weight – annoyingly I seem to have put on a few pounds, although I honestly don't know how – and obligingly pee into the little orange cup before they usher you back into another small room, where you're told to change into one of those awful backless gowns and asked to wait some more. And they never have any good magazines to read. Why is that?

Tossing the November 1998 issue of Golf Digest back onto the chair in the corner, I look around the room for something else to pique my interest. The sterile counter with standard-issue stainless steel sink, boxes of Kleenex and latex gloves lined up neatly to one side… this has to be exactly like every other medical exam room on the continent. Nothing even remotely captivating. With a small sigh, my mind drifts to the folders back at the office, two-dozen cases currently sitting in my 'active' file. Taking off the afternoon for a medical appointment certainly isn't helping my workload any – it will all still be there in the morning. Then, taking another deep breath, I once again remind myself why it is that I'm here, and try to curb the professional frustration by banging my heels restlessly against the cold metal of the examination table.

It has been nearly seven months since the laparoscopy, since Dr Marge removed the endometrial tissue. This is the first check-up I've had since the surgery; my original appointment from last month had to be rescheduled due to my last-minute trip to Afghanistan. That's one of the things I both love and hate about being in the military… with a schedule that's always subject to change, arranging your normal, everyday life can sometimes become a real challenge. So here I am, sitting helplessly on some hygienic paper, in nothing but a well-worn cotton shift that's a little too breezy for my taste. What a way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. Harm and I are supposed to go to dinner tonight and at this rate, I'm wondering if I need to call and ask for a rain check.

Just as I'm about to poke my head out towards the nurses' station to see what the hell is taking so long, there's a soft rap on the exam room door.

"Sarah?"

"Oh, thank goodness." I sigh with relief as Dr Marge discreetly closes the door behind her, reading down her clipboard as she steps into the room.

"Thanks for waiting." She smiles, finally looking up from my chart. "It's just been one of those days. You wouldn't happen to know if there's a full moon tonight, would you?"

"Nope, sorry." I chuckle. "Tonight's only a quarter moon. Full moon isn't until next week."

"Damn, I was hoping that would explain the sudden influx of insanity around here. Oh, well." Laughing softly, she sets the clipboard down and leans back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest in a move that absurdly reminds me of Harm, even though she's a good foot shorter and a woman to boot. "So how have you been feeling?" she asks.

"Fine." I shrug. "A little stressed out and overworked, but nothing I can't handle."

"Any discomfort or nausea? Irritability?" 

"I've definitely been irritable. And yeah, I guess you could say I've been a little queasy the last few weeks." I've always hated admitting when I don't feel well, but deep down I know it's important in this case. "But like I said, I've been under a lot of stress."

"Anything in particular besides work?" Picking up my chart again, she removes a pen from her coat pocket and starts to take notes. It's hard to tell whether that's a good or bad sign, since her expression isn't giving anything away. What is it about doctors and their uncanny ability to beat around the bush? It's almost as though they're required to take a course in deliberately being vague when it comes to conveying information: _How-to-Break-News-to-Patients-in-the-Most-Maddening-Way-Possible-101._

I sigh, folding my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting. "A friend of mine was in an accident recently."

"Car accident?"

"Landmine."

"I see." She scribbles something down, clearly unfazed. God bless military doctors. "Good friend?"

"One of my closest," I reply, briefly wondering what this line of questioning has to do with my check-up. "He's also a valuable coworker. The rest of us have had to pick up the slack while he's recuperating."

"Makes sense." She nods. "Your last menstrual cycle was… two months ago?"

"Thereabouts." Okay, now we seem to be getting somewhere. I honestly can't remember when I last had my period, so I'd guesstimated when the nurse asked me the same thing earlier. Apparently she wrote it down on my chart.

"Do you usually go that long between periods?" Dr Marge asks, looking back up at me.

"Not usually," I acknowledge. "But with the dirty nuke, Bud's leg and all of the work that's been piling up, I just chalked it up to everything that has been happening since I got back."

"Dirty nuke?" Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

I roll my eyes. "Don't ask."

Considering that, she bites the tip of her pen. "There are plenty of other explanations as to why you've been feeling the way you have."

My mind latches on to the hesitation in her voice. Suddenly I'm sure the endometriosis has come back, or worse, I've got cancer or something else just as devastating. Oh God, cancer. I can't help it; my mind flashes through all sorts of horrendous possibilities and my heart begins to race. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong. At least, I don't think so." She pauses. "Colonel, I know you're not a medical professional, but I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet."

"Figured what out?" The attorney in me is arguing that her silence constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. The Marine in me is bellowing that that this game of twenty questions is starting to really piss me off. And the woman in me is screaming that I'm not ready to die.

Up until now I'd like to think I've been holding my nail-biting urges in check, but the good doctor suddenly seems to clue into the fact that I'm swiftly nearing the end of my rope. "I'm not trying to be deliberately annoying," she's quick to reassure me, "but do you know what it generally means when a woman is late?"

Well, duh. My response is automatic. "It usually means that she's—"

_Oh my God. _The dire thoughts screeching to a halt, I sit there open-mouthed as my mind tries to process this latest curve, not entirely registering her sudden air of smugness.

"You mean…?"

The shock on my face must be clear, because she smiles broadly. "Congratulations."

"Are you sure?" My voice is barely above a whisper. I want to believe her, desperately want to, in fact, but I've had so many disappointments over the years that I can't help asking the question.

"Routine urinalysis," she says. "The results showed elevated levels of hCG, more commonly known as the pregnancy hormone. We'll have to do some blood work to confirm, of course, but your levels were high enough for me to safely say it's not a false positive."

I'm abruptly swept back to November, when she'd first told me that my chances of conceiving were not the bleak four-percent of my future, but a viable and healthy eighty-five percent. At the time I'd thought I would die of sheer relief, hearing that my fate was once again under my control… but the elation I felt ten months ago is absolutely nothing to the incredible joy that suddenly washes through my soul. A baby! The world blurs. I can't breathe. Unable to stop the tears, my mind goes numb and I close my eyes and begin to cry, the happiness is so overwhelming. With another four little syllables she has given me the greatest gift of my life.

And then three faces flash through my mind: Harm's, our unborn son or daughter's, and that of an elderly Asian woman who, in retrospect, has truly given me the greatest gift of all – a second chance to change my destiny.

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

"Come on," the doctor's kind voice pierces through the haze. My vision refocuses on her smile. "We've got some blood to draw and a few things to discuss."

The wave of elation carries me through the next few hours. I float through the rest of my office visit, thinking about this miracle child and about how to tell Harm that he's going to be a father. Carrying the mental image of my first ultrasound – and still in a state of shock that what had begun as a follow-up to concerns about infertility resulted in the knowledge of my impending motherhood – I head home on a cloud to change into civilian attire before dinner.

It isn't until I catch myself standing in front of my bathroom mirror, marveling at my tummy's still-flat profile, that I realize that I've got no idea where Harm is expecting me to meet him. Smiling giddily one last time at my reflection, I meander out into the living room and glance around. My briefcase is sitting right where I dropped it absently upon arriving home, just inside the door next to the television armoire.

Pulling out my day planner and opening it to the appropriate page, a quick note in familiar masculine handwriting stands out boldly:

_There's a new place that's just opened right around the corner from HQ and I thought we could give it a try. Meet me there at 6:30? Love, -H_

The address included with the note rings a bell, but I can't quite place why it seems familiar. Still, I recognize the general location… and realize that I'd better get a fire under my feet if I want to be there on time. With a renewed sense of urgency and excitement, I quickly don a fabulous black matte jersey wrap dress, one that's supremely comfortable and yet shows off my curves. A couple of minutes and a few accessories later, I'm heading down the stairs and out to my car.

On the drive over to Falls Church, my mind races as to how I should tell Harm. An internal dialogue keeps me preoccupied: Should I tell him before or after dinner? _Before, it has to be before. I don't think I could wait until dessert!_ I laugh to myself. What do I say? Should I get him a card, or do something cutesy? _No, I'm running late as it is. And besides, 'cutesy' really isn't my thing. Just tell it to him straight._

"Harm, you're going to be a daddy." I practice aloud. The voices on NPR continue to discuss recent political events, ignoring my brief interruption. Feeling like an idiot for talking to myself, I frown and re-focus my attention on the road.

Within ten minutes I'm around the corner from the address Harm provided, sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change. I don't usually take this route on my way to work, but once again I'm struck by how familiar it all feels. The light turns green, and I begin to make the turn…

And there it is, sitting straight ahead of me, my destination…

_Here?_ I think in disbelief. Pulling into the newly paved parking lot, I slide my 'Vette into an available space. Sure enough, Harm's own Corvette is parked directly behind me – I'd recognize that license plate anywhere, even backwards in my rearview mirror. This is definitely the place.

Killing the engine, I sit for a moment staring at the building. The plastic sheeting that seven months ago covered the front door has been removed, the front of the restaurant shining brightly under a fresh coat of gray paint. Above it all hangs a cheaply made vinyl sign. And there, taped to the inside of the glass front door, is a small poster board announcement that proudly proclaims:

LUCKY DREAM PALACE  
FINE CHINESE CUISINE  
NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS!

"This cannot be real," I say to no one in particular. And yet I know it is. After all, how appropriate would it be for me to tell Harm that he's going to be a father in the one place where this entire adventure began? From this vantage point, I can see both my future and my past.

Another few minutes pass by in silence.

My reverie is finally broken by a shrill ring – it's my cell phone. Digging the still-humongous Motorola out of my purse, I find myself smiling foolishly when I see Harm's number flash in green LED lights.

"Hi," I answer.

"Where are you?"

"Just pulled up. I'll be there in a second." An older man exiting the restaurant with his wife catches my daffy smile and gives me a funny look.

"Okay. See you in a few," Harm replies, and cuts the connection.

Snapping the phone shut, I drop it back into my purse and scoot out of the car, taking care to lock the doors behind me. Only a handful of paces further and I'm poised on the entrance.

Just outside the doorway, however, I pause one last time, taking a long look at the façade of the building before me. Then, I take a deep breath. I don't know exactly what's going to happen once I go in, but a small voice in the back of my consciousness tells me that something momentous is about to take place.

"Here goes nothing." And with that, I step inside towards my destiny.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Well, folks, the end is here! Thank you so much for reading and enjoying the tale along with me. Of the handful of JAG stories I've written over the years, this is without a doubt my favorite.

Several posters have asked about the possibility of an epilogue or sequel. At this time I have no plans to continue the story. However, I'm not discounting the possibility entirely… it just won't be in the immediate future. :(

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**Chapter 16**

Tuesday  
June 18, 2002  
2348 ZULU (1848 local)  
Lucky Dream Palace  
Falls Church, Virginia

The first thing I notice as I step across the threshold is how dark the interior of the restaurant is compared to the sunny day outside. However, within seconds my eyes begin adjusting to the dim lighting, and I start scanning the dining room for Harm's familiar form. There isn't much of a dinner crowd tonight – most of the tables are empty, truth be told – so it doesn't take me long to spot him. He's sitting at a small table towards the back of the room, just beyond the massive blue fish tank that he couldn't stop staring at during Coates' dinner celebration.

At least tonight he seems to be fully aware of his surroundings. As I make my way across the floor towards where he's sitting, I see that the waitress has stopped by his table and is making idle chitchat. My heartbeat quickens the closer I get; soon, I'm standing just a few feet behind our server, who has her pad and pen at the ready. From here, I can just spot his face underneath her bent arm. He's smiling up at her, that sort of awkward face he gets when in a situation that requires pleasant small talk, and I must admit that I find it even more endearing tonight than usual. Is it just me, or does he seem a little… nervous? No, that's got to be my imagination. Still, the fitted dark-gray button down and coordinating steel-gray tie look quite dashing on him. Wishing I could watch him for just a moment longer, the waitress suddenly moves to one side and he sees me standing here. Those blue-green eyes light up.

"Hey."

Grinning warmly, he begins to rise but I shoo him back down with an appreciative smile. That's one thing to be said for being in the military – good manners come with the territory. The waitress turns and looks at me. Odd, but I'd swear it's the same young Asian woman who served us the last time we were here, 'back' in April 2005. The bandanna in her hair certainly looks the same.

"Would you care for drink?" she asks in a slightly lilting accent.

"Water, thanks." Unconsciously smoothing down the front of my dress as she gives a little bow of acknowledgement, I wait until she turns toward the kitchen before pulling out the chair across from him.

Harm gives me an appreciative once-over. "Wow, you look nice," he murmurs as soon as she's out of earshot. There's definitely something on his mind, because he sounds a little like he's swallowed a frog. He quickly clears his throat. "What's the occasion?"

"I could ask you the same thing." I smile, trying to cover my nervousness by playing coy. My heart is really beginning to race. _It's just Harm,_ a little voice reminds me. "Just thought I'd put on something nice after my doctor's appointment—"

Sliding into my seat, my voice trails off as I notice something large, black and furry sitting where my napkin should be. At first glance my mind screams _MOUSE!_ But then instantly I realize if there were a rodent the middle of my then Harm certainly wouldn't be eyeing me so calmly. I take a closer look.

The object in the midst of my place setting is certainly fuzzy, but it's nothing more alive than a little black jeweler's box. The kind of jeweler's box that usually holds a ring.

Raising my eyes to meet his, I finally recognize that the look on his face isn't calm at all. In fact, he's looking at me rather intently, the hazel of his eyes looking more green than blue in the dimly lit space.

_Oh my god, he knows about the baby!_ Conflicting thoughts crash in a tangle of nerves and surprise. I'd felt we were moving in this direction, but never in a million years did I expect him to propose so soon! Fortunately, another tiny voice in my mind, the rational one, takes over before I say anything aloud. _No, wait, he can't know, I just found out myself. But the timing… and I know better than anyone that nothing is impossible. Does he know? Who else could have known? Who could have told him? Is he proposing because he wants to propose? Or is he proposing because…_

"Why?" That's all I can manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

Our gazes lock. "Why what?" he whispers back.

"Why now? Why here?" The sheer surprise of the moment has robbed me of my ability to form a coherent sentence. From somewhere beyond I'm vaguely aware that I'm babbling.

He seems thrown off by my hesitation, but forges ahead. "Mac, after all that's happened with you and me, with Kabir, with Bud… life's too short. And you're too important for me to lose."

"Really?" Hope blossoms in my chest.

He shrugs one shoulder and gives me another lop-sided, uncertain smile. "I planned to ask you later tonight, but when I saw you walk in I just couldn't wait."

My eyes begin to sting with tears. If I'd thought my heart was racing before, it's now pattering frantically against my ribcage. Hardly daring to breathe as I turn my attention back to the box, time seems to stop as I study its lines, reaching out to draw the tip of one finger across the top. Yep, it's fuzzy.

"Aren't you going to open it?" he finally asks.

Blinking, I realize I've been sitting there staring at the ring box for nearly a full minute. Our gazes meet as I reach for it. His eyes are bright with anxiety as gingerly lift the lid, the spring-loaded mechanism popping open with the tiniest effort.

Inside is one of the most beautiful solitaire diamonds that I've ever seen, so much so that I gasp involuntarily. The sparkling central stone is flanked by two smaller diamonds and is set on what at appears to be a platinum band. I look at the ring. I look at him. I look at the ring. I look at him. And finally beginning to believe, I look back at the ring.

"Oh, Harm…" Overcome with emotion, my eyes fill helplessly as I pluck it from the case with trembling fingers and hold it up to the light. It's more exquisite than anything I could possibly have imagined, and I fight back a joyful sob. He couldn't have picked out anything more perfect. "It's stunning."

"I hoped you'd like it," he says. Mild relief washes over his face, his jaw relaxing a little. "Actually, I prayed that you would."

The only time I've ever seen Harm pray has been at church on Christmas or before going up in a Tomcat, but that's beside the point. Eyes brimming with happy tears, I give a watery laugh. "Must have paid off. It's beautiful."

He waits for all of thirty seconds more. "So?"

I glance up at him. "So… what?"

"Mac..." He rolls his eyes.

"If you want an answer, then you need to ask the question." Even though I'm sure I know what's going on here, this is no time for us to fall back into ambiguity. There are some things that simply cannot be assumed.

Thankfully, he doesn't hesitate. "Will you marry me?"

"Hell, yes!" I blurt out in relief, a manic grin spreading across my face as the floodgates open. Oh shit, I'm crying. I mean, _really_ crying. My heart feels like it's about to burst from my chest, I'm so happy... and the tears are beginning to flow like Niagara Falls in the middle of a freak hurricane.

"Well then, come here."

It only takes about a second for my vision to go watery and reduce Harm to a blurry, wavy outline across the table. At least I can hear him chuckling, which reassures me he hasn't run for the hills. We seem to have finally gotten this communication thing down pat. Feeling rather than seeing as he takes my left hand and slides the ring onto my finger, I wonder why on earth I didn't think to wear waterproof mascara tonight. The doctor had warned me about hormones, certainly, but this loss of control is ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly embarrassing.

With the ring securely in place, I can't help but think about how I must look. "Oh god," I laugh, pushing back from the table and grabbing my bag. "I need a damn Kleenex. Be right back."

"Can you see where you're going?"

"Well enough." I smile.

It only takes a few seconds for me to cross the dining room and duck into the ladies' room. Grateful that none of the stalls appear to be occupied, I quickly tear a few squares of toilet paper and straighten. As I blow my nose in a forceful and totally un-ladylike honk, I take a long sweeping glance of the room. It's just like every other restaurant women's restroom I've ever been in, stark and utilitarian. Only, it's this one that has haunted my thoughts over the course of the last eight months. This is where it all began.

Stepping up to the mirror, I grab a paper towel from the dispenser, dampen it under a faucet and quickly begin to repair the damage to my make-up as best I can. A few minutes later and I finally feel somewhat presentable again, although I could use a little more lipstick. Reaching into my handbag, I begin to hunt…

"Good choice you make."

The raspy, female voice startles me momentarily, my searching hands going still in my purse as I look up into the mirror. Sure enough, reflected behind me is the elderly Chinese woman whose first appearance changed my life.

"Hello," I say, only breaking eye contact long enough to turn around. She's standing by the wall a few feet away. Almost everything about her is the same: the worn clothing, graying hair has been pulled up into a serviceable bun and a mop in her hand. But this time she is also wearing an expression of satisfaction.

"Good choice you make." she repeats, ignoring my greeting. "Was good choice. Good change."

_If you want to change your life, you need not look beyond the present moment._

Since finding myself back in time all those months ago, I've dreamt of what I would say or do if this mysterious being – because there's no way she can be a mere mortal woman – were ever to reappear in my life. At first I'd felt nothing more than anger and frustration at being tossed back into a world that I'd long ago left behind. Then I'd been given a second chance at hope: of having children, of recapturing the magic with Harm that I'd thought had been lost forever. I am now wearing his ring on my finger and carrying his son or daughter within my body. And it's all due to this one being's intervention. How can I ever thank her for this gift?

Feeling that the words aren't enough even as I open my mouth to speak them, she holds up her hand.

"Destiny is picky thing," she says. "You make choice, things change. Make other choice, things no change. But every little choice have potential to turn into big effect." Her eyes sparkle with an ancient aura of understanding.

And with that, I know.

When we'd last met, she'd flashed me an excited gap-toothed smile. _"One,"_ she'd said. _"One thing you change. But beware, what you think you want to change not necessarily the correct thing to change."_

As the wheels in my head had begun to turn on that night so long ago, I wondered how she knew about my fortune. And as I wondered, a picture formed in my mind, the then-recent memory of Harm looking at me as I'd read the words of my cookie's fortune out loud.

And with his likeness still floating through my mind, she told me what a good choice I'd made and disappeared from my life. At the time I hadn't appreciated the true depth of what had transpired, searching the restaurant in confusion, and continuing to puzzle endlessly over her words until the memory had become faded and blurred with distance.

It wasn't until that awful day outside sickbay aboard the _Guadalcanal_, waiting helplessly for news about Bud, that I'd finally understood. Or at least I _thought_ I'd understood…

Standing here once again in the ladies' restroom in the Lucky Palace, I'm awed by a wave of certainty as it washes through me.

"It wasn't just about choosing Harm, was it? I've wanted him forever, thought of him as mine, but I never had the courage to tell him. All those years I'd just assumed he knew how I felt, and assumed I knew how he felt about me. I didn't, or couldn't, hear him telling me the truth until it was too late. That's what I chose. I chose to break the cycle of miscommunication, of being ambiguous about my feelings. And of making assumptions about his."

"Good changes this." Nodding with an enigmatic smile, she bows slightly and gives me one final wink before slipping nimbly out the door with one last parting shot: "Good choice you make."

I watch as the door swings shut behind her, pondering the events that have brought me to this point and realizing that instead of freaking me out, having had a mysterious savior gives me a strange sense of comfort and peace. I know I'll never see her again.

After thirty full seconds of contemplation, I turn back to the mirror and pinch my cheeks lightly to give them a healthy glow. As I do so, the ring on my left hand captures the light of the fluorescent bulbs above. For a moment I stand there admiring it and how it looks on my finger. Then looking back at the mirror, I smile softly at my reflection and repeat with happy confidence: "I didn't just choose Harm. I chose _us_."

Although I look significantly better now than I did when I first left the table – the raccoon effect has been minimized – I realize I could still use a little lip color. It takes another thirty seconds for me to quickly refresh my lipstick and collect my belongings. There's a bottle of pre-natal vitamins floating around in my purse that will make a useful prop when I break the news to Harm. Giving myself one last smile in the mirror, I follow the little old Chinese lady's path through the door, thinking about the vitamins and how my happy fiancé has no idea he's about to become even happier.

_Finis_


End file.
